


To Those That Walk In Darkness

by Somniare



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Case Fic, Drug Dealing, Hurt/Comfort, Immortality, M/M, Mentions of Canon Child Abuse, Mortality, Not a Crossover, Not quite a Fusion, Secrets, Small Fandom Big Bang, did I mention it's an AU, inspired by ABC's Forever, set between series 7 & 8, warning for violent death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:15:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 107,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3617835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somniare/pseuds/Somniare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A motor vehicle accident becomes a murder investigation.  As Lewis and Hathaway investigate, death comes to Oxford CID, and a secret James Hathaway has kept for most of his life is shockingly revealed.</p><p>(This is an AU, please read the tags)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 11 January – Saturday – Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Small Fandom Bang Round 4, 2014.  
> Tarlan (Tarlanx) has created some[ absolutely stunning artwork](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3621717) for this story. Please take some time to appreciate its awesomeness.
> 
>  **Acknowledgements:**  
>  Many, many thanks to my patient friend and beta, **paperscribe**. Without your thoughtful questions, and poking at the tricky bits, this story would not be what it is. (It wouldn’t even have a title.)
> 
> Deepest gratitude to my friend and Brit-picker, **barcardivodka** , who helped me keep Oxford and its surrounds as they should be, and who has spared you, dear reader, from my glaring Australianisms. I’m home and hosed now, hun!
> 
> To my artist, **Tarlanx** , who barely blinked at the size of this story (because I certainly developed a nervous twitch); thank you so much for the beautiful and thoughtful artwork and your encouraging comments.
> 
> To my Twitter-sisters: thank you for bearing with my panics, hyperventilating, and grumpy “I’m ready to throttle my muse” moments. You’re the best.
> 
> (And I really must thank ITV for making one of the best shows on telly, and ABC for _Forever_ and the inspiration it provided.)
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Although this has been wonderfully proofed and checked, I have tinkered with it all the way through a couple of times. I own all the typos, mistakes, goofs, missing words, and anything grammatically or chronologically out of place. They are all I own.

  

“Drew’s fucking history, Susan!”  The wind ripped Carl Brayden’s furious words away.

Susan Brayden ran up the short laneway, swearing at her own stupidity and praying her brother wouldn’t come after her.  She listened for the slamming of a car door.  When she heard the roar of an engine and the squeal of tyres instead, she stuttered to a halt and pressed her back against the wall.  It gave her some shelter from the sleet that had been falling most of the night, but if she didn’t get inside soon, her jacket would be ruined.  She pulled her collar up to protect her neck and as much of her blonde-streaked hair as she could.  Walking hurriedly towards the end of the laneway, she was thankful she’d opted for low-heeled boots instead of her new four-inch heels.  If she couldn’t catch a bus or flag down a taxi, she had a long walk ahead of her.

She rubbed at her upper arm where Carl had grabbed for her as she bolted from the car.  Christ, how had a simple night out gone so fucking wrong?  Why did she have to have an overprotective dickhead for a brother?  They’d never been close, and the six-year age gap had only widened the rift as Carl had left home shortly after Susan had started secondary school.  But ever since he’d changed jobs a few years back, he seemed to have made it his mission to keep her on the straight and narrow.  “Dad’d be so disappointed in you, Suze.  Throwing your life away like this.”  Why did he think she’d care what their dad thought?  All she could remember was sting of her dad’s hand across the back of her legs.  Twenty-odd years he’d been gone, and they’d been good until Carl tried to step up.  Uptight prig needed to learn to lighten up as she had, and if she was making a bit of money on the side, wasn’t that her affair?

Susan had always managed to fob Carl off before, tell him he was making a mountain out of a molehill.  She’d been careless tonight, and royally screwed up, and now he was off like some misguided knight in shining armour.  Carl had never liked Drew – he’d never liked any of her boyfriends – and now he was out to…  Susan wasn’t sure what Carl would do.  She’d seen him angry before – although Carl had a long fuse, when he blew you ran for cover – but tonight, as he ranted at her in the car, she was certain he was going to hurt her if she didn’t get away.  Of course, the problem now was that not only was Carl out for blood, he was going in the wrong bloody direction.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”  How in the hell had he grabbed her bag?  She had her phone, she’d kept that in her jeans pocket, but she had neither keys nor money.  “Think, you stupid cow,” she muttered angrily to herself.  Carl had to be stopped.  If he made it to the house where he thought Drew lived, her reputation, her freedom, and her lucrative little sideline could come crashing down.  If he somehow got inside the unremarkable cottage he’d probably get his head ripped off, or worse, he’d see enough to bring the whole business down, and then get away.

She made a call.

“Len?  Suze.  Shut up an’ listen.”  You had to silence Leonard Pemberton quickly.  He was good at what he did, but, shit, Len loved the sound of his own voice.  If you let him get started, the self-important idiot would waste precious minutes.  “I had to get a ride home with Carl.  He knows about the coc– the merchandise, and he’s seriously pissed off.  Now he’s after Drew.”

_“Don’t worry about it; Drew can take care of himself.  Why the fuck were you even in a car with Carl, you know–”_

“Because Drew stranded me with my family and I’m pissed off at him, but that–”

_“What was wrong with a bloody taxi?  If you’d–”_

“For fuck’s sake will you let me finish?”

 _“Fine.”_ She could imagine him rolling his eyes.

“He’s headed for the Oakley house.”

_“What?”_

“He thinks it’s Drew’s place.”

_“Why would he–”_

“He followed you, me, and Drew out there last weekend.”

_“He what?  Why the hell didn’t you say something before?”_

“I didn’t know until tonight, okay?  Anyway, he’s going out there because he’s got it in his head it’s Drew’s place.  He was going on about putting a stop to it all.”  She was getting frustrated.

“Stop to all of what?”

“I don’t know.”

“How much does he know?”  Len’s voice rose.

“I don’t fucking know, okay?”

 _“Fuck.  Any other_ cheery _news?”_

“He’s got my handbag.”  She heard him hawk and spit.

 _“Leave it with me,”_ he muttered.  _“You are aware the boss’ll have to be informed; this can’t be ignored or hidden.”_

Susan’s faint hope Graham Hawker wouldn’t find out was shattered.  Hawker was the most nondescript man Susan had ever met.  He was the sort of man you could pass in the same place at the same time every day and not register he was there at all.  However, when he made his presence known, he wasn’t someone you forgot in a hurry, and God help you if you crossed or disappointed him.  She knew even Len was wary of him.

_“Get home and wait for me or Graham to contact you.  If your arsehole of a brother fucks this business up…”_

He didn’t have to finish the sentence.  Susan knew exactly what was at stake.

The call cut out.

“Thanks, Len,” she muttered, jamming the phone back into her pocket.

 

* * *

 

The wind drove the sleet against the windscreen.  Only Carl’s anger stopped him turning back toward home.  Ever since their dad had passed away, Carl had sworn to keep his baby sister safe.  He believed it was what his dad would have wanted, but Susan didn’t make it easy.  She was easily led and her choice of boyfriends was abysmal, from the first bastard who’d slapped her around as a fourteen-year-old to this drug-dealing wanker she was with now.  Carl hadn’t trusted Drew from the first moment he’d met him – all swagger and muscle and Susan couldn’t keep her hands off him – and when he’d first seen cocaine residue in Susan’s house he’d known immediately it was Drew-bloody-Caulfield’s influence.  Carl had tried to scare Susan away from Drew, threatening to report her to the police, but Susan had called his bluff.  Carl had had to admit, Susan might not always make the wisest choices, but she wasn’t stupid.  For Carl, putting Susan at risk of being sent to jail would be the worst possible thing he could do to her.  Susan needed help not punishment.

Carl had tried a different approach instead, warning her more than once that he was going to make an example of Drew.  Susan had pleaded with him to back off, and had promised she wouldn’t touch cocaine again.  Like an idiot, he’d believed her.  He knew she’d manipulated their mother for years, but had always thought he was too aware of her ways to be fooled by one of her tricks.  He’d been an idiot. 

He muttered to himself.  “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice… bitch.”  Carl glanced down at Susan’s bag, where it rested in the passenger footwell.  When he’d accidentally knocked it off her chair at the restaurant, and the small bag of cocaine had fallen out, he’d been horrified.  He was going to string Drew up by his balls when he got him, and shove his cocaine so far up his arse he’d be able to snort it without using a rolled up five-pound note.

He banged the side of his fist against the steering wheel.  Despite most cars moving along at a snail’s pace, he’d had to crawl around several multiple car accidents, often having to wait until the way was cleared.  On any other day, Carl would stop and help; it was what he did.  Not tonight.  It was almost with a sense of relief when he took the turn that would take him to Oakley, leaving most of the traffic behind.

One car joined him on the road.  Carl had first noticed the dark saloon pull in behind him over fifteen minutes earlier, as he’d crawled past the second accident.  It was a pity it wasn’t Drew’s Jeep.  He could have it out with him here and now, and save himself the rest of the drive.  Without warning or reason, the driver of the saloon turned their high beams on.

“Turn your fucking lights down, you arsehole,” Carl muttered, ducking his head down to avoid the blinding light reflected in his rear-view mirror.  He accelerated as fast as he dared in the slippery conditions, trying to put some distance between himself and the other car.  The second car kept pace.

Carl tried slowing down.  The second car slowed down.  The distance between the two cars remained constant.  Carl wasn’t a coward, but he was starting to feel uneasy.

When he took the quick right then left-hand turns to get himself onto Horton Road, the second car vanished.  Carl assumed they’d turned left to head for one of the small villages off the B4027.  He took several slow, deep breaths, and focused on what he was going to do to Drew the Blood-Sucking Leech.

He drove carefully.  In the sleet-darkened night, the trees loomed closer to the road than he remembered from the couple of times he’d driven up following Susan and Drew.  Last time he’d followed them they’d left Drew’s Jeep behind and driven up with some poncy bloke in his flash car.  Carl didn’t know he was, but he’d been keeping his eyes open and would find out.  If the ponce was a mate of Drew’s then he was probably dirty too, and Carl wanted to see every drug-dealing bastard strung up.  He passed the cluster of buildings on Woodperry Hill, visible only because of the lights still glowing in the windows.  Power was still on, then.

He reached the beginning of the woods.

“What the fuck?” he yelled, as the interior of the car was lit from behind.  Bright, white light bounced off the rear-view mirror and his side mirrors.  The car suddenly jolted forward, and the steering wheel spun out of his hands.  Had he been hit?  Was it black ice?  The trees rushed to meet him.

 

**********

 

His head hurt.  He could smell petrol and the sleet.  His face was freezing.  He’d had the windows up and the heater on.  Why was he so cold?  Carl opened one eye slowly.  There was a jagged edge and something else familiar in front of him, but he couldn’t focus on it.  _Window’s broken,_ was the only coherent thought he could manage.  The shape moved closer and began to take form.  Whatever he’d expected to see, it wasn’t the blurry outline of a face.  “Help me?” Carl rasped.

“Sorry.  I can’t do that,” came a calm, resigned voice.

 

* * *

 

Susan sat by the window and waited.  Beth had gone back to bed, muttering about the ignorance of those who didn’t know what it was like to work twelve-hour shifts on your feet.  The phone vibrated in Susan’s hand.

_//It’s under control.  Graham will contact you later to give you further instructions.  Keep your phone on.  I’ll try to call you later.//_

She shuddered.  The last time Graham had given her ‘further instructions,’ he’d twisted her elbow so hard it had taken two weeks for the bruises to fade and the swelling to go down.  She’d told colleagues she’d done it trying to stop herself falling when she’d slipped on wet tiles in the bathroom.  When she’d later tried to brush off Drew and Len’s questions, they’d both seen through the lie.

“I warned you he was more Mr Hyde than Dr Jekyll,” Drew had said.  “He’s not like me or Len.  What you see with Graham is most definitely not what you get.  Be careful.”

The phone buzzed again.  Though there was no caller ID, the content of the message left her in no doubt as to the identity of the sender.  Graham’s instructions were not to be questioned.

 


	2. 12 January – Sunday – the wee small hours

 

Lewis fumbled in the dark for his phone.  “Suppose it was too good to last,” he muttered to himself.  They’d been at the top of the rota for over forty-eight hours without a call-out; there hadn’t even been a Friday night pub brawl to deal with.  With the phone secured in his hand, Lewis rolled onto his back, squinting against the bright display as he checked the time.  Just after half-past twelve.  He’d been in bed barely an hour.  He knew he should have grabbed an early night while there was a chance.  The caller ID confirmed his suspicion.

“What have we got, James?”

“Car versus tree out at Blackwater Wood.”

“And they want CID?”

“Uniform’s stretched to the limit tonight.  There’s been one accident after another.”

“Ah, bugger.”  Lewis wiped his hand over his face, pulling his eyelids down.  “Not surprising, though; it’s been a bloody awful night.”  It had started sleeting shortly after he’d said goodnight to James at the pub, where they’d had dinner, and if the sound against his windows was any indication, it still was.  Lewis sat up with a groan and stifled a yawn.  “I’ll see you there in about forty minutes.”

“Erm, could you pick me up on the way, please, sir?”

“Problem with the car?”

“No.”  James hesitated.

“What is it, man?”

“I… I’ve had a couple of drinks… since I’ve been home.  I know I shouldn’t have… I’m not drunk, but…”

“S’all right, James.  These things happen.  I’ll be at yours in about fifteen minutes.”  Lewis ended the call.

Frowning, he clicked on the bedside lamp, and then checked for the cat before pushing himself to his feet and taking the few steps to the wardrobe.  He stood with his hand on the open door, looking at nothing.  Yes, things like that did happen, but not with James.  A half-pint with dinner was fine, but it wasn’t like James to drink anything more when he knew they were on call.  Unfortunately, Lewis didn’t have time now to ponder what might have happened to James after leaving the pub and receiving the call out, and he was certain something had – he’d felt it in his gut when James had wavered – and asking James was going to be out of the question.  He’d simply have to be watchful.

On the short drive to James’s, Lewis wondered what James had meant by ‘a couple of drinks’?  Was it beer?  Whisky?  Wine?  Large?  Small?  James’s words had been clear, and Lewis trusted James would have said if he wasn’t fit for duty; however, Lewis realised he would have to make a judgement as much for James’s sake as the case’s.

As Lewis pulled up in front of James’s building, James was waiting just inside the opened front door, the yellow light from the hallway spilling around him.  The continuing sleet distorted the image through the windscreen, warping and folding James’s silhouette.  The light vanished as James pulled the door closed behind him, and then jogged towards the car.  A blast of cold, wet air heralded James’s arrival at the car, and he dropped into the passenger seat, closing the door with a bang.  James exhaled heavily and looked at Lewis.

James’s colour was normal, though his eyes were slightly hooded, but not with drink.  Lewis’s own eyes felt as heavy as James’s looked, as neither of them had been sleeping well of late.  In the rewarming air of the car, Lewis could smell the distinct fragrance of James’s deodorant, and the fresh mint of toothpaste.

“You all right?” Lewis asked, giving him an appraising look.

“Fine, sir.”  James held Lewis’s gaze.  “I had two glasses of wine, and I didn’t want to risk doing a Knox.”  The story of Chas Knox’s ignominious demotion and subsequent departure after a drink-driving charge was still given as a warning to all new probationary officers who arrived at the nick.

Lewis gave a single nod.  “Good, then you can give me the most direct route to the scene.”

“Your car and phone both have GPS,” James pointed out.

“Can’t stand the bloody voices on either of them, can I?  Rather listen to you tell me where to go – and you can keep your cheeky remarks to yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”  No-one could have missed the mirth in James’s tone.  “Take the London Road to the Headington roundabout, and continue north-east onto Bayswater Road.”

“See, I don’t need a GPS with you around.”  Lewis glanced across at James before he pulled out from the kerb.  James was doing his best to hide it, but something had unsettled him.  _Keep his brain occupied, Robbie._  Lewis knew James always knew when Lewis was trying to distract him.  He also knew James always appreciated Lewis’s efforts, whether they were successful or not.  “So, what else can you tell me about the case?”

“It appears to be a single car at this stage; one fatality, adult male.  There’s a bit of black ice around; Uniform hit a patch of it very close to the accident site.”

“Any idea who called it in?”

“Local landowner, so the Duty Sergeant said.”

“Do you know that stretch of road at all?”

“Not personally.  I did use the time I was waiting for you to remotely login to the Central Records database–”

“I knew Peterson’s idea to have someone there on-call twenty-four seven would fall flat.”

“I heard Innocent asked him if he was going to pay the additional overtime from his own budget allocation.”

Lewis snorted.  “Luckily for me, you get more sense out of that database than anyone else I know.  It’s a little unsettling just how much you can find when you get cracking.”

“You just have to know how to ask it the right questions.”

“So, what did the right questions reveal this time?”

“Nothing remarkable or suspicious.  There’ve been accidents there in the past – predominately car versus tree – but it’s not a black spot.  There are a number of reports from the same person – Mr James Crossley, a local farmer.  He could be the person who called this accident in.”

“What?  You couldn’t find out for certain.”  Lewis threw a sideways grin at James.

“Unfortunately, even I can’t get information out of the system before it’s been correctly input.”

“Fair enough.”

The weather made driving slow going, as Lewis attempted to watch for black ice and deep puddles of slush through the sleet-smeared windscreen; the wipers were making hard work of keeping it clear.

“Bloody sleet’s getting heavier.”

James said nothing.  Another stolen glance told Lewis he was focussed on being a second pair of eyes on the road.  They stopped for a red light.

“I had a… an unpleasant phone conversation around half-past eleven,” James said quietly

In Lewis’s experience, late night calls were rarely good.  What was even rarer, however, was James volunteering information.  “Everything okay?”  It was a daft question, but Lewis’s other option was silence, and not acknowledging James.

James stared out the side window.  His reflection stared at Lewis.  “It’s not anything I can change or affect.  I have to let it be what it was: unexpected but not entirely unanticipated news.”

The signal changed.

“Do you need some time off?” Lewis asked.

James considered the offer for a moment.  “No, it's fine.  But thank you.”

They made it off the Eastern Bypass without incident, leaving the city behind them as they headed north.  As they approached the end of Bayswater Road, James directed Lewis to take a right, then an immediate left.  They encountered a roadblock.

A PC, draped in an oversized rain poncho and carrying an umbrella, approached the car.  Even before he lowered the window, Lewis could see both items had offered the woman little protection; her hat and hair were sodden underneath the clear plastic hood. 

“Evening, sirs.”  She ducked her head down and peered into the car.  “Crash site’s a mile up the road, and with the temperature dropping there’s a lot more black ice around.  Recommend you take your time getting up there.”

“Dr Hobson here yet?” Lewis asked.  Headlights from a vehicle behind them suddenly filled the car with light and caused the PC to squint.

She straightened up.  “That’s her now, sir.”

Lewis thanked the officer.  With an admonition to her to stay safe, he turned the car onto Horton Road and proceeded slowly.  In the rear vision mirror, Laura kept a safe distance behind.

They saw the glow from the scene well before they came to it.  Bright floodlights cast a dome over the area and reflected off the large white tarpaulins erected over the mangled car and surrounding area, though not all the way back up to the road.

James was out of Lewis’s car before Lewis had killed the engine, pulling his coat over his head.  He walked to the rear of Laura’s car, waving to Laura in passing, and removed her kit and umbrella from the boot.  Lewis smiled at James’s continuing chivalry.  It had been nearly six months since Lewis and Laura had decided that them being a couple was not meant to be.  They’d given themselves a fair chance, but after several months of comfortably plodding along, as Laura had put it (and Lewis couldn’t disagree), they’d been forced to admit to themselves that the necessary spark for a deeper, committed relationship simply wasn't there.  There'd been a little awkwardness as they'd readjusted back to being friends only, and James had taken it on himself to help smooth the way.  Fetching and carrying Laura's bag whenever he could was one task he had held onto.  Lewis had teased him that it was because Laura had called him 'gallant Sir James' the first time.  James had blinked slowly once at Lewis, his face inscrutable.  A movement in the side mirror caught Lewis’s eye; Laura’s door opened.  That was Lewis’s cue to exit his car.

He retrieved the golf umbrellas he kept in the boot for times such as this.  Opening one, Lewis crossed over to Laura’s car.  He nodded a greeting to Laura as she relieved James of her possessions, and then passed the open umbrella to James.  Opening the second umbrella, Lewis followed them towards a tall, square tent set up on the most sheltered side of the site.

Apart from the brief exchange of greetings, none of them was in the mood for small talk.  Both Laura and James silently assessed the scene before them as they approached the tent, each looking for answers or clues.  Lewis, with his thirty-plus years of policing experience, saw, at first glance, a tragic accident – a vehicle that had hit black ice and careened off the road into the encroaching trees.  The weather conditions had already obliterated the tracks of the car between the road’s edge and its final resting place; had there been another vehicle involved, SOCO and forensics were going to have their work cut out to prove it.

Folding the umbrellas, they stepped inside the tent where they donned crisp new scene suits, something Lewis hadn’t been looking forward to in this weather.  Despite the cover, wet hands, damp air, and muddy ground all made pulling on the thin Tyvek garments harder than usual.  Fortunately, the tent was high enough that neither he nor James had to stoop, and it was large enough for all three to dress without risking injury to another or accidental inappropriate contact.

Under the cover of the tarpaulins, Laura headed purposefully towards the vehicle, ducking easily under the scene tape.  James took one umbrella and headed for the uniformed officers on site, no doubt the first responders.  Lewis walked the perimeter slowly, grateful for the other umbrella’s protection.  The sleet wasn’t easing off.  He wished they had a more even light to work under; though bright, the halogen beams also created deep shadows that concealed.  It was no-one’s fault, and a second more thorough search would occur after first light.  In the meanwhile, the imperative was to preserve the scene.

Lewis started to pick his way carefully down the embankment towards James, who had finished speaking to the other officers and moved under the protective cover of the tarpaulins closer to the wreck.  James had folded his umbrella neatly in his hand, pointing it safely towards the ground.  Lewis followed suit once he reached shelter.  James started to turn towards Lewis and stopped dead, studying the mangled car, and Laura, intently.  Lewis came up to his side.

“Well?”  Lewis bumped against James’s arm.  James looked at him as though surprised to see him.  “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” James said quickly.  “Fine.  I, er.  Right.”  James briskly shook his head and flicked through his notebook.  “James Crossley did call in the accident.  He was up tending to a sick horse and heard the impact.  That’s his property over there.”  James pointed towards a farmhouse with a single lit window.  The house itself was visible because of the light cast from the open doors of what Lewis assumed was a stable adjacent to it.  “A constable is taking Mr Crossley’s statement now.  So far, as far as SOCO can tell, all the damage to the car is consistent with the driver losing control and skidding off the road.”

Lewis nodded.  “And you don’t think that’s right?”

“No.  Yes.”  James sighed.  “I agree with the preliminary findings.”

“But something’s bothering you?  You were pretty focused on the car.”

“Not the car.  The victim.”

“Do you know who he is?”  The last thing Lewis needed was for James to have a personal involvement in a case.  Though it had been a couple of years, the events at Crevecoeur were still fresh in Lewis’s mind, not to mention the death of Will McEwan, and James had been lucky not to face disciplinary action over his… indiscretions on both occasions.

“No.”  James’s eye contact and crooked smile put Lewis’s worries to rest.  “And we don’t have an ID as yet.”

“Then what were you looking at?”

“His head.  He looks like he turned to talk to someone at the window.”

Laura looked over her shoulder at him.  “I had the same thought.  The marks on the air bag will have to be analysed, but I suspect he was facing forward when the car hit.”

“Any ideas on what killed him?”

“The sudden stop, most likely.  I’ll know more after the post mortem.  There’s a minor head injury, no doubt from the air bag, but unlikely to be fatal, so, internal injuries, I’d say.”

“Do we have an ID, Laura?”

“There’s nothing in his jacket pockets and in his current position I can’t access his jeans pockets.  You might have more luck with the registration at this stage – unless the car is stolen.”

Lewis looked at James. 

“I’ve called for a PNC check,” James said.  “They haven’t got back to me yet.  There’s a bit of backlog because the station lost power for a couple of hours with this weather, and the emergency power didn’t kick in as quickly as it was supposed to.”

Lewis considered their options.  “Not much more we can reasonably do here, and SOCO seem to have everything under control.”

“Well, it’s fine for you, gentlemen.”  Laura looked weary.  “I’ll have to wait until the body can be freed from the wreck.”

“We can wait with you for a bit, can’t we, James?”  James nodded.  “Let’s get inside the car, though.  No point standing out in this lot.”  Lewis raised his umbrella, offered Laura his arm, and they walked carefully up the slippery bank to the road and the cars.

 

**********

 

They settled in Lewis’s car, with the engine running and the heater on.  Laura sat in the passenger seat and made several calls to arrange the post-mortem.  James sat behind Laura and stretched his legs out along the rear seat.  His face was lit from below by his phone screen as he tapped and scrolled, his brow creased in concentration.  What he was looking for, Lewis had no idea; possibly trying to coax more information out of the database.  Ah well, If he found anything of relevance he’d let them know.  The steady blow of the heater was soothing, and with James and Laura absorbed in what they were doing, Lewis closed his eyes.

He’d never understood why bad weather seemed to bring out the idiot in so many drivers.  The bloke in the car had probably been in a hurry to get home and out of the weather.  For the sake of trying to save a few minutes, he was dead.  The worst part was it wouldn’t matter how many talks they delivered in schools, how many campaigns and pleas they made to take care on the roads, when the weather turned bad there would always be someone who thought they were immortal.

Lewis shivered.  Despite the heaters, he felt chilled to the bone.  The umbrellas and scene suits had done little to protect against the sleet and he was soaked to the skin.  The sooner they could get away from here, the better.

He attempted to stretch in his seat.  Laura had tucked her phone away somewhere inside her scene suit.  “When do you plan on doing the post-mortem?” he asked her.

“I’ll take a look at the body once he’s in Pathology and make a decision from there.”

“Will you want us there?”

“Unlikely.  There’re no immediate signs of foul play, but I wasn’t able to examine the body properly because of the position.  Time and UV light can reveal so much more.  I’ll call you if I need you.”

A series of loud creaks, cracks, and groans signalled the car’s removal from the tree.  Lewis looked up as Fire and Rescue started to work on freeing the trapped victim. 

“Twenty minutes.  That was fairly quick,” James remarked.

Laura hummed.  “In my experience, separating a car from a tree is a bit like getting the lid off a jam jar: some pop off surprisingly easily, others require the demolition of half the kitchen before you can get your morning toast.”

Lewis looked into the back seat and exchanged a bemused glance with James.  Outside, metal groaned, as the door was levered open as carefully as possible.

“That’s my call, gentlemen.”  Laura zipped up her suit.

“I could stay on with you, if you like,” James offered, poking his head through the gap between the seats.

Laura smiled gratefully.  “Thanks, James, but there’s no point in both of us catching our death of cold.”

James’s phone rang in his hand.  “There are worse ways to go,” he said lightly before answering the call.

Laura gave him an indulgent smile.  “Good night, boys.  I’ll call you if I need you.”

An icy blast pushed most of the heat from the car as Laura and James opened their doors one after the other.  James slipped into the front seat, yanking the door closed, and then turned up the heater.

His phone beeped again with an incoming email.  “The car’s registered to a Carl Brayden, thirty-six, address in Cowley.  This is the photograph on file.”  James held up his phone.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” Lewis asked, not that he really needed the confirmation.  Apart from the slight blow to the head, the face of the young man in the car had been unmarked.

James nodded.  “The car hasn’t been reported stolen, and according to the records the photo was updated about three months ago.”

“Better send that information through to Laura and Pathology.”  Lewis turned the car around to head back to the city.  “I hate this part of the job.”  Every time Lewis had to tell a family they’d lost a loved one, he bore a part of their pain.  He might not have James’s photographic memory, but he could recall the faces of nearly every family to whom he’d delivered life-shattering news.  Now he would add another.

“I’ll do it,” James said softly.  Lewis couldn’t see James’s face clearly, but he could picture his sincerity, and his eyes.  James could look impossibly young at times, particularly when he relaxed and dropped his guard; however, he often appeared to carry the weight of years, and it always showed in his eyes.  Lewis regularly had the sense James had seen far more sorrow in his lifetime than one person should.

“ _We’ll_ do it, eh?  Together.”  James nodded, and Lewis was sure he smiled.  “Now, what’s the quickest way to Mr Brayden’s home?”

 

**********

 

The house was in darkness, as were those surrounding it; the power was out here, too.  Lewis recalled the glowing lights from Crossley’s farm, and the lit buildings they’d passed on Woodperry Hill, and wondered at the vagaries of weather and power supplies.  Perhaps those properties had generators.  He shrugged, and huddled as close to James on the step as he dared.

They’d knocked twice.  A curtain had twitched at the house next door, but otherwise the short street was still.  It wasn’t that surprising considering it was close to four on a winter’s morning.  They were wasting their time here, and it was too bloody cold to be standing on exposed steps hoping someone would come to the door.

“Home time, eh, James?  We’ll track down a next of kin later today.”  James’s face took on a stubborn set.  “There’s no-one waiting for him here, and you’ve phoned in the details to the station and hospital, so if someone’s looking for him they’ll get the information, and we’ll get a call.”

“If you drop me at the station, I’ll get onto finding next of kin now.”

“The only thing you’ll be getting onto now is the car seat.  You’re chilled to the bone, man; I can see you shivering.  I’m dropping you home, where you’re going have a hot shower and try to grab a couple of hours’ sleep.  Understood?”

 


	3. 12 January – Sunday – Later in the morning

 

Lewis felt as though he’d barely rolled into bed when his phone rang again.  He squinted at the screen, registered the time as 6am, and then answered the call.

“This better be bloody serious,” he muttered.

“Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep, sir.”  James’s voice was rough.  Not enough sleep, too many cigarettes.  “Dr Hobson needs to see us as soon as possible.”

“Has she already done the post-mortem?”

“Something about getting it out of the way.”

“Sounds like Laura.”  Lewis rolled onto his back.  “Not an accidental death, then?”

“It would appear not.  I’ll be at yours in twenty.”

The line went dead, and Lewis forced himself to his feet.  James had better bring coffee.

 

**********

 

Coffee and a bacon and egg roll.  Lewis had had worse starts to the day.

“Thanks, man,” he mumbled around a mouthful. 

James nodded as he chewed.

“Did you get any sleep?” Lewis asked.

“I managed to lie down.”

“Good lad,” Lewis said quietly.

 

**********

 

Laura looked far more alert than Lewis thought she had a right to be.  At least he and James had managed to get home.

“Good morning, gentlemen.  Apologies for the early wake-up call, but I thought you’d want to know about this as soon as possible.  Did you bring me some breakfast, too?”  She cocked her head at James like a curious bird.

“Who’s said we’ve had breakfast?” James replied smoothly.

“You have egg yolk on your tie.”  She pointed at the container of wet wipes near the sink.  Lewis attempted to cover his laugh with a cough.

“Well, inspector?”

“James’ll bring you something down in a bit?” Lewis offered.

“I’m just teasing.”  She smiled at a discomfited James who was dabbing carefully at the orange mark.  “I’m going off duty as soon as this is done, and all I want is a hot shower and chamomile tea.”

“Is that the real reason you called us in?  So you wouldn’t have to wait?”

“No.  I know time is critical in situations like this, and a quick result should be relayed quickly.”  She drew the sheet down, exposing Carl Brayden to the top of his shoulders.  “Mr Brayden’s blood alcohol reading was zero, and the initial testing’s given no indication of drug use.  I’ve run a full tox screen, but the results won’t be available until later this afternoon at the earliest.  X-rays have revealed a minor skull fracture, non-lethal, and severe internal injuries; however those injuries might have been survivable if he’d been taken to a hospital within a couple of hours of the accident.”

“That’s not right.”  James was frowning.

Laura drew herself to her full height and pushed her shoulders back.  “Are you questioning my judgement, Sergeant Hathaway?”

“Never, Dr Hobson.”  James opened his notebook.  “The 999 call came in at 12:10am.  The caller, James Crossley, indicated the accident had happened just on midnight.  The first responders were there at 12:20am, which is when we were called in, as Mr Brayden was already dead.”

“And that’s why you’re here,” Laura said with a hint of sadness.  “I’m not CID, but I can guarantee there was at least one other person around, if not a car.  Brayden’s hyoid bone has been crushed, and it’s nearly impossible for that bone to break by accident.  James, could you turn off the lights, please?”  In the near darkness, Laura switched on the overhead UV light and tilted Brayden’s chin up.  Faint oval markings were visible on his neck in a pattern Lewis recognised.

“He was strangled.  You might have been right.”  Lewis looked at James.  “He may have turned his head to look at someone: his murderer.  Do we have Crossley’s statement on record yet?  Do we know if there was another vehicle?”

James made a new note.  “I’ll chase it up.”

 

* * *

 

Susan replaced the phone handset back in the cradle and exhaled heavily.  Done.  Just as Graham had said to do.  She picked up her mobile and systematically deleted all messages from Len, Graham and Drew, cleared her call history, and then deleted the three men from her contacts.  She put her mobile face down on the kitchen worktop next to the house phone, also as instructed.  When Len had surprised her by calling – he’d said he’d try, but she hadn’t expected him to – she’d asked him why Graham would want her to do that.

“The less you know, the less the police can find out.  Graham gave you your instructions.  Trust him.  Trust me.”

She walked into the front room and looked out the window.  Twenty minutes they’d said.  She was still absorbing the fact Carl was dead.  Len had told her it had been an accident, that Carl had lost control on black ice and hit a tree.  It served him bloody right for not backing off when he was told to.  She wasn’t going to miss him, that much was certain.  If it hadn’t been for their mother, she would have left Oxford years ago; it would have been the only other way she would have ever got her brother out of her life.  Uptight, self-righteous prig.  Now she didn’t have to worry about him interfering anymore.  She sat down on the couch and bounced her spare keys in her hand.  The £20 she’d ‘borrowed’ from Beth was stuffed in the bottom of her jeans pocket, and as long as Susan got her handbag back soon, Beth would never know it had been missing.

She settled herself on the couch and waited.

 

* * *

 

James returned to the office with two coffees as PC Julie Lockhart arrived with two files.

“Preliminary report on Carl Brayden’s vehicle and Mr Crossley’s statement.”  She looked from one detective to the other.

“Statement to Sergeant Hathaway, and I’ll take the report, please, Julie.”  Lewis held out his hand for the second folder.

James skimmed the single page.  It didn’t really give them much more to work with.  James Crossley had told the PC who interviewed him that he might have heard another vehicle, but when the weather was as bad as it had been, he knew from experience sounds could be turned around.  It could have been a vehicle on another property, or perhaps simply the wind.  Crossley hadn’t seen any other lights either, “and only a blithering idiot would have been out in that lot without lights.”

Lewis humphed, but before James could ask him what he’d seen, Lewis’s phone rang.

“Lewis.”

“Really?  Interesting.  What’s she been told?”

“No.  Let her continue to believe it was an accident.  When’s she due in?”

“Sergeant Hathaway’ll be down in twenty minutes.  Thanks.”

James looked curiously at Lewis, waiting for instructions.

“A missing person’s enquiry been received from a Susan Brayden,” Lewis explained.  “Her brother, Carl, was supposed to pick her up for their regular visit to see their mother in her nursing home in Abingdon.  He hasn’t turned up, and he’s not answering his phone.  A car’s gone to bring her in to identify our victim.  I’d like you to escort her to pathology – I’ll ring Laura and tell her not to mention murder; you’re not too either, please – then I’d like her back up here in an interview room.”

“Are you going to leave me in suspense, too?  Why don’t you want her to know her brother was murdered?”

“I’d like to find out a bit more about this.”  Lewis held up the file.  “They’ve found numerous sets of prints inside the vehicle – most of which matched the victim.  There was also a handbag under the front passenger seat.  A purse in the bag contained identification belonging to a Susan Brayden, and a small zip-lock bag with about half a gram of cocaine was found in a zipped pocket.”

“And you think the drugs might point to a motive.”

“We can’t dismiss anything at this stage.”

**********

Lewis slipped into the viewing room to assess Susan Brayden.  She was sitting calmly, with her head lowered.  Despite this, Lewis could see her profile clearly.  There were no tears, no sign she’d cried at all.  Her hands were folded in front of her.  They were still and relaxed.  James stood at a sound Lewis hadn’t heard, and Julie entered with a plastic jug of water and some disposable cups.  Susan looked up slowly.  Lewis used the interruption to move into the room himself.

“Ms Brayden, I’m Detective Inspector Lewis.”  He took the seat next to James.  “My condolences on your loss.”

She sniffed and nodded.  Lewis reminded himself everyone grieved differently.

“Could you please tell us when you last saw Carl?”  Lewis spoke gently.

“Last night.  A bit after eleven, maybe half past.  We’d been out to dinner for my sister’s fortieth.  He dropped me home.  Carl didn’t drink, so he was always the designated driver.”

When a witness or suspect offered information unprompted, all of Lewis’s instincts would fire up; it often indicated a planned statement, something the truly innocent or uninvolved didn’t need.  Coupled with her calmness, Ms Brayden’s verbal generosity was making Lewis’s copper’s nose tingle.

“Can anyone verify when you arrived home?”

She nodded eagerly.  “My housemate.  I’m afraid I made a bit of noise getting in and woke her up.”

“And your housemate’s name?”

“Beth.  Beth Jamieson.”

“You understand we’ll need to speak to Ms Jamieson to confirm that?”

Susan’s mouth opened and closed.  She nodded once.

“You live in Blackbird Leys, and your brother in Cowley.  Can you think of any reason why he would have been near Blackwater Wood last night?”

“No.  None.  We don’t know anyone out that way.”

James pressed a knee against Lewis’s leg.  Lewis hadn’t missed the multiple denials: she was lying.  They’d let it go for now.  If she thought she’d fooled them once, there was a good chance she’d slip up later.

“Does your brother have a mobile phone?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“He didn’t have one on him at the time of the accident; at least, none was found in the car.”

“Sorry, can’t help you there.”

“Can you tell us his number?”

“Not off the top of me head – I’m shit with numbers – it’s on my phone.”

“And where is your phone?”

“I, um… Dunno.  I lost it a couple of days ago.  It’s probably around the house somewhere with a flat battery.”

“Then how did you call your brother this morning?”

“I didn’t.”

“When you reported your brother missing, you said he wasn’t answering his phone.”

“Oh.  Right.  That.  I thought you meant I’d talked to him.  He’s on speed-dial on the house phone.”

James made a note and looked up slowly.  “Why was your handbag in your brother’s car?”

“My bag?  In his car?”  She recovered quickly.  “I wondered what I’d done with it.  I’d had a bit to drink.  S’not the first time I’ve left it behind somewhere when I’ve had a skinful.”

Lewis sensed James tense beside him, or perhaps it was only his copper’s nose going on full alert.  “Exactly when did you first realise you didn’t have your bag, Ms Brayden?” he asked.

“When I went to let meself in.  I, um, I had to batter the door a bit.”

“It was a nasty night.  Your brother didn’t wait around to see you got in okay?”

She shook her head.  “I probably told him to get home or something.  Like you said; it was a nasty night.”

The room wasn’t overly warm, but a light sheen had bloomed on the young woman’s forehead.  She’d also started to fidget with her hands. 

“What would you like to tell us about the cocaine we found in your bag?”

“Fucking….”  She slumped in the chair, mumbling.

“Ms Brayden?”

“It’s not mine.”

“So when we compare your fingerprints to the prints on the bag of cocaine they won’t match?”

“You can’t take my prints without permission.”

“We have reasonable suspicion: we don’t need your cooperation.  James, could you arrange for a fingerprint officer to come up?  Alert them to the probable connection to the prints from the bag and the car.”

James rose without a word.  Susan Brayden’s jaw tightened and her pupils dilated.

“Carl was the one who wrapped his car around a tree,” she blustered.  “You should check him out.  He must have put it in my bag.”  A cadet in their first week would have been able to see she was grasping at straws.

Lewis spoke softly.  “Ms Brayden, your brother was murdered.”

She looked genuinely shocked.  “No.  That’s not right.  That’s not how…”

“We’ve found evidence of the involvement of another person in your brother’s death.  Ms Brayden, can you think of anyone who’d want to harm your brother?”

“No.”

**********

“The reference prints from the car have already been input, so it shouldn’t take too long to run the comparison.”  The fingerprint officer carefully packed her kit.  “I’ll have the report to you within the hour, inspector.”

“Thanks, Leah.”

James held the door as she left, and then he beckoned another officer to the door.

Lewis addressed an increasingly sullen Susan.  “Ms Brayden, you’re going to be held in custody, without charge at this stage, for the next thirty-six hours.”

“You can’t do that.”  She jerked upright.  “It’s twenty-four hours.”

“We’ll be making an application to the magistrate to hold you for an additional twelve hours.  The cocaine and where it was found will be more than sufficient to obtain permission.”  Lewis would have also liked a warrant to search her home; however, they’d need more to go on than one tiny bag of a Class A substance.  “Is there anything you’d like to say before we take you to the custody suite?”

“I haven’t done anything,” she mumbled sulkily.

 

* * *

 

Susan was angry.  She paced the short distance between the two side walls of the cell.  Why hadn’t Len told her Carl had been murdered?  He must have known something.  _God, what a wanker!_   She had a right to know that little detail.  She kicked out at the wall, jerking her leg back before her toes struck the brick.  Len had said everything was under control.  She assumed he’d meant he or someone else had retrieved her bag.  When the younger copper had first mentioned her bag had been found in the car, she’d thought he was bluffing, but how could he have known about it otherwise?  She couldn’t let herself believe Len had fitted her up, but she did start to wonder if maybe she should have asked for a solicitor.  Though if she had, and Graham had found out…

It was one of the first things Graham had drilled into her.  “You ever need a solicitor you get a message to me first.”  His words were burned into her brain.  “Even if it means sitting in a cell for a bit, never ask for a solicitor off your own back.  If the police ask if you want one, say no.  I will sort it out.”  She hadn’t argued.  She was terrified he would break her arm.

She slumped with her back to the wall.  How in hell was she supposed to get a message through to Graham from here?  She couldn’t call anyone even if she had access to a phone.  She hadn’t been lying when she’d said she had trouble remembering phone numbers.  Susan took a deep breath.  In all their dealings, despite the injuries she’d received, Graham had never lied to her.

_“I will sort it out.”_

She’d told Len her bag was in the car.  He would have known there was a good chance of her having cocaine in it.  He would have known she’d be arrested eventually.  He’d tell Graham.

_“I will sort it out.”_

“You’d better, you bastard,” she whispered to the wall.

 

 


	4. 12 January – Sunday – Afternoon/evening

  

 

James walked into the office and dropped the file down onto his desk.  “She’s not exactly grieving, is she?  She barely turned a hair when she identified her brother, and you should have seen the look Laura gave me.”

“I think I know the one you mean.”  Lewis followed him in, half-closing the door behind him.  “Her ‘where did you dig this one up’ look, reserved only for the coldest of supposedly grieving relatives.”

“That’s the one.”

“Perhaps they weren’t close; not all siblings are.  Look at the Hawes brothers.  Speaking of siblings, get on to the sister and confirm this dinner she says they were at.”

James grunted and dropped into his chair.  “She never once asked why we were questioning her over a car accident.  And why didn’t she ask for a solicitor when confronted with the cocaine?”

The same thoughts had struck Lewis.  It could be the result of grief, shock, or guilt, or nothing at all, as James well knew.  It was up to them to find out the truth.  “Learning Carl was murdered was a shock.”

“Shock, yes, but she wasn’t overly upset about it.”

Lewis sat down and rocked back in his chair.  “’That’s not how,’ she started to say.  Not how, what?  Not how he died?  Not how she was told he’d died?”

“She didn’t ask a single question as to where, when, or how the car accident happened; not even of Dr Hobson when we were in Pathology.  The officers who picked her up said she didn’t say a word on the way in, and she didn’t ask me anything either.  Now, I know you have far more experience than me, but usually the relatives ask at least one question about the death, unless they already know something, or think they do.”

Lewis exhaled slowly.  “True, but it could also be something as simple as shock.  If it is, the questions’ll come later, and for all we know she’s raising blue hell in the cells right now demanding a solicitor.”  He sat forward and leant on the desk.  “Right.  Let get this show on the road: one of us needs to grab a constable and interview the housemate while the other starts digging into the Braydens’ backgrounds.  See if there’s any truth to the cocaine story, or anything else that might have made Carl Brayden a target.”

James twisted his chair around to face his computer.  “I know how much you love trawling through databases, so I’ll start the background checks if that’s all right with you.”

It was.  Lewis lifted his jacket from the back of his chair.  “If you’re done before I get back, have a shuffle through the contents of Ms Brayden’s handbag as well.  You might spot something forensics missed.”

 

**********

 

Getting out of the office had taken longer than Lewis had expected.  After being held up with several small enquiries and a detour to Innocent’s office to bring her up to date, Lewis turned into the short road Susan Brayden lived on nearly an hour after he’d told James was leaving.  As he looked for a place to park, a man appeared on the footpath near the end of the row of houses.  He took two steps in Lewis’s direction before turning sharply on his heel, covering his head with a black hoodie worn under a leather jacket, and walking purposefully in the other direction.  He had disappeared around the corner and out of sight before Lewis had exited his parked car.  Lewis thought there was something familiar about the man’s gait, but he’d vanished before Lewis could give it any more thought.  It wasn’t until Lewis approached the house Susan Brayden shared that he realised the man had come from either here or one of the immediate neighbours’.

Beth Jamieson looked flustered when she opened the door.

“Ms Jamieson?”  She nodded.  “Inspector Lewis, Oxford Police.  We spoke earlier.”

She studied his warrant card carefully.  “Yes.  Right.  Um… come in.”  She walked through to the living room, looking around as she did so.

“Is everything all right, Ms Jamieson?”

“Yes.  No.”  She sat on the couch, tugging her skirt over her knees.  “I was upstairs earlier and thought I heard someone in the house, about five minutes before you arrived.  When I came down, the front door was open, but I was positive it had been locked – I haven’t been out today and Susan always locks up when she goes out.”

Lewis thought about the man that he’d seen hurrying away.  “Is anything out of place or missing?”

“Not that I can see.  I have my phone, and the telly and DVR are where they’re supposed to be.  They’re the kind of thing someone’s going to nick, aren’t they?”

Lewis nodded.  “No laptops or tablets?”

“No.”  She laughed.  “I can’t be bothered, and Susan’d only lose them.”

“Does she do that often?  Lose things?”

“She’s always putting her phone down and forgetting it.  Pubs, clubs, taxis, loos; she lost it inside the house for a week once.  Honestly, she needs to have it chained to her.  Doesn’t always get it back either.”  She looked at him curiously.  “But that’s not why you’re here, is it?”

 

* * *

 

The lives of Carl, age 36, and Susan Brayden, age 30, weren’t exactly giving James hope for a swift resolution to the case.  After he had delivered the bad news, their other sister, Karen, had confirmed the dinner.

“Carl and Susie left around eleven,” she stammered out between sobs.  At least someone was grieving for Carl Brayden.

“I’m sorry I have to ask these questions, but did you notice anything unusual?”

“Yeah.”  She hiccupped another sob.  “They left together.  They haven’t gotten on since Suze was a kid, but I hadn’t seen either of them for a bit and thought maybe the pair of them had grown up and gotten over themselves.”

“And nothing happened during the evening to give you any cause for concern?”

“No.  Why?  What’s that got to do with a car accident?”

“A family liaison officer will be with you soon and will explain everything to you, and answer any questions you might have.”  James crossed his fingers.  He’d been told someone had been assigned.

James headed outside for a cigarette. 

Pushing through the doors to the car park, James was surprised to see DC Hooper striding purposefully through the half-empty space.  Hooper never hurried anywhere, and this aberration made James pause in the shadow of the doorway and watch.  Hooper was a man with a purpose, and his goal appeared to be DI Peterson, who was dismounting from his motorcycle.  Peterson removed his helmet, and James was intrigued when he seemed to flinch away from Hooper.  Hooper’s hand was outstretched in a demanding fashion.  James could see Peterson’s lips moving, but heard nothing.

The exchange ended suddenly when Peterson shoved hard against Hooper, and Hooper stumbled backwards clutching at his chest.  Then neither moved for three long seconds and James held his breath.  Peterson stood his ground, his whole posture daring Hooper to try something.  Hooper made a sharp 180 degree turn, and returned to the building far less resolute than he’d left it.  James slipped back inside the door and stepped back into the right hand corridor.  If Hooper saw him, James hoped it would look like he was coming back from Central Records.

Hooper swung the door open, muttering to himself.  James only caught a few words.

“…bastard and his bloody up himself ways.”

In one hand, Hooper held a slightly battered looking iPhone, but it was his expression that caught James’s attention.  It was not the face of the fair-to-average DC James was most familiar with; Hooper was furious.  James had seen the same expression on him only a handful of times - usually after a run in with Peterson.  Then two PCs turned into the corridor, Hooper rubbed his hand over his face, and in less than a blink the nondescript Hooper James knew best was back.

James, like most in the station, was well aware it was unwise to put Hooper and Peterson alone together in the same room.  James had always put their mutual dislike of each other down to an incident shortly after Peterson arrived, when Peterson had accidentally spilled coffee on Hooper, but instead of apologising, had joked how Hooper’s trousers now complemented his soy-sauce spotted tie.  It was petty by anyone’s standards, but it was also the only thing James could think of.  That day, Hooper had looked as though he’d happily kick Peterson into the middle of the following week.

The door swung open again and Peterson strode in, a black hoodie swinging behind him, and his leather riding jacket folded neatly over his arm.  He was pulling off his riding gloves, revealing the finer cotton pair he wore underneath in winter; James had made the mistake of commenting on those once.  Like Hooper, Peterson was also more than a little worked up, and was talking to himself.  Half a sentence made it to James’s ears before Peterson disappeared down the corridor in the same direction as Hooper.

“Just who the hell does he think…?”

James stayed where he was, bewildered.  He risked a glance into the corridor to see if it was clear.  Peterson barged through the double door at the end.  Well, that was bloody mysterious.  Had Peterson accidentally picked up Hooper’s phone at some point?  James shook his head.  It was more likely Peterson had been trying to wind Hooper up.

Peterson was a prat.

James’s cigarette had lost its appeal, and Lewis would probably be back soon.  He walked slowly back to the office, keeping one eye open for Hooper and Peterson on the way.

 

* * *

 

Lewis sipped his mug of tea and studied the altered landscape of James’s desk.  The contents of Susan Brayden’s handbag and purse were spread across it, formed into neat groupings of… some description.  James was leaning back in his chair, his gloved fingers steepled in front of his face.

“Anything?” Lewis asked.

“Carl Brayden lived and worked in Cowley, and appeared to be a responsible member of the community.  The PNC threw up his driver’s licence and car registration information, as well as his prints – he’s a registered security guard – but other than that, there’s nothing on him, not even a warning.  I rang Dr Hobson about the cocaine, and she assures me it will show up in the tox screen if he took it in the hours before the crash; however, she said if he _was_ a user, it was either very recent or very infrequent.  His body didn’t have any of the usual indicators.”

“Don’t have to be taking the drug to sell it.  What about the sister?”

“Susan Brayden has several convictions for shop-lifting, and one for being drunk and disorderly – a little fact I suspect she’s hidden from Sainsbury’s, her employer.  She’s lived at the same address in Blackbird Leys for five years.  There are no vehicles registered in her name, which isn’t surprising considering she doesn’t have a driver’s licence.  There’s no record of drug use, and she won’t give consent for a blood sample to be taken so Laura’s going to see if anything can be picked up in a saliva sample.  I’m waiting for the bank to supply Mr Brayden’s information, but I can’t get permission to access Ms Brayden’s yet, as she is not deceased and refuses to give permission.”

“And that lot?”  Lewis waved a hand over James’s desk.

“She likes Polo mints, three-ply tissues, and Airwaves Black Mint chewing gum.  There’s a cityzone key card for the buses – it took me three phone calls and one veiled threat to learn it’s valid for another two weeks and has AUTOpay set up on it.”

“Which makes sense when you live in Blackbird Leys, work in the city centre, and don’t own a car.”

James poked a small mound of flattened out till receipts, sticky notes, and scraps of paper.  “She also appears to be an obsessive note maker, though whether she referred back to any of these at any point is debatable.”

“Anything useful?”

James shook his head.  “A mixture of shopping lists and reminders to call people, but no phone numbers.  Everything must have been on her phone, like she said… wherever that is.”

“Was worth a look,” Lewis said.

“Fare any better with the housemate?”

Lewis sat down.  “Beth Jamieson was very informative.  She said Susan arrived home closer to midnight, without her bag, and upset about something.  Ms Jamieson is also a loyal friend.  It took considerable effort, and the hint that failure to disclose information was a crime, for her to inform me Susan could be secretive and a bit erratic.  She immediately added that Ms Brayden was also neat, quiet, and always paid her share of rent and bills on time.  And she regularly lost her phone.”

“Midnight?  She said Carl dropped her off at half past eleven or thereabouts.”

Lewis nodded.  “I asked what Susan’s time keeping was like.  Ms Jamieson said she was hopeless; she didn’t wear a watch, and if she didn’t have her phone…”

“So we’ve no way of knowing if she’s being truthful or not?”

“Not unless we find evidence to the contrary.”

“Anything about the cocaine?”

“Ms Jamieson appeared genuinely shocked and more than a little upset at the suggestion, and she gave permission for a full search of the property: I left a SOCO team out there.  That was also when she volunteered the fact Susan has a boyfriend, a bloke by the name of Andrew Caulfield, though Susan calls him Drew.  Ms Jamieson stated point-blank she didn’t like him, said he was a dodgy bastard, but always had loads of cash – that makes him interesting to me.  But here’s the curious part: this Caulfield chap picked Susan up last night – Beth Jamieson saw them leaving as she arrived home – so why wasn’t he the one driving her home?”

“Curiouser and curiouser.”

“I’ve got to write up Ms Jamieson’s interview.  Can you visit Ms Brayden in the custody suite and get some details off her about Andrew Caulfield?  We’ll get him in tomorrow.  If she doesn’t co-operate, warn her she can be charged with obstruction.”

James was at the door when Lewis stopped him.  “Then you and I are off.  It’s been a bloody long day, and I could use a pint, and something hot that doesn’t come out of a microwave on a plastic tray.”

 

**********

 

Lewis was staring out the window when he sensed someone behind him.

“Anything interesting,” came the murmur in his ear.

Lewis turned slowly.  “You were bloody quick.”

“She didn’t take much convincing to give me Caulfield’s details – no phone number, but she gave me enough to be able to track it down.  Interestingly, he also lives in Cowley, but on the opposite side to Brayden.”  James slipped behind his desk.  “I’m not sure if she’s more annoyed at him for not knowing where she is, or her housemate for telling you about him.  She’s an odd one.”

“Takes all sorts.  Are you going to call him now?”

“As soon as I find the number.”  James tapped at the keyboard.

“We could always go and visit him at work.”

“Have you ever noticed how people seem to resent us popping up at their office or college?  It’s far nicer if they can come to us, don’t you think?”  James’s eyes glinted wickedly.  “Got you,” he whispered.  “Now to convince you to come in tomorrow.”

Lewis stood by his own desk to wait while James made his call.

After what was a relatively straightforward call, Lewis asked, “Not much more we can do here.  You ready to head off?”

“Definitely.”  James rose at the same time Lewis lifted his jacket from the back of the chair.

“Dinner’s at my place.”

“Your place?”  James blinked with surprise.  “I thought you didn’t want anything out of a microwave.”

“Aye, mine.  And there’s no need to look like that.”  They walked slowly out of the office.  “I’ve cold beer, or there’s Macallan if you’d prefer that, and home-made minestrone soup.”

“Made by who?”

“Me.”

“You?”

“Cheeky sod.  Val called it me signature dish.  It was her mum’s recipe.”  James’s eyebrows shot up.  Lewis grinned.  “There’s more than one way of winning over your mother-in-law.”

James chuckled.  “What else can you make?”

“Egg and chips, steak and chips, full English breakfast.”

“Anything else with vegetables?”

“Potatoes are a vegetable, and I like mushrooms and grilled tomato with me breakfast – and yes, I know tomato’s a fruit.”

James smiled slowly.  “Minestrone sounds great.  Do you have crusty bread?”

“I’ve got a multigrain loaf; good enough?”  James nodded.

 

**********

 

James helped himself to a third bowl of soup.  “This is really good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Sorry.  It’s just…”

“Just because I don’t cook regularly doesn’t mean I can’t.  It’s more I can’t be bothered cooking for one; I either end up eating the same thing for a week, or throwing most of it out.”

“You could freeze leftovers into individual containers.”

“I could.  I did do it for a bit, but I discovered some things don’t freeze or reheat well, or I’d have to boil potatoes or cook some veg to go with it to make a proper meal.  It’s been easier to chuck a meal in the microwave… you know how it is?”

James nodded his understanding.  “Next time you have the urge, I’m happy to come over and be a guinea pig.”

“Oi!”  Lewis chuckled at James’s cheeky grin.  “I’ll keep that in mind if I ever get the urge to channel Heston Blumenthal.”

Lewis was grateful to have James in his home tonight.  He couldn’t force James to sleep, though God knew, both of them desperately needed it, but the odds of James mulling over the case all night were greatly diminished while he was here, and that was a plus in itself.  Lewis himself did not intend to raise the case in conversation, and had also insisted they leave everything on their desks for the next day.  Unless James attempted to drive back to the office with two whiskies and two beers under his belt, the Braydens were a no-go zone for the evening.

James scraped the last spoonful from his bowl.  “Thank you.  I didn’t realise how much I needed that until I started eating.”

“Anytime, lad.”  Lewis meant it.  Had James not met Lewis on his return to Oxford, Lewis had a depressing image of himself living a lonely existence travelling between a soulless flat and the training centre.  He owed James more than he could ever repay and, while he endeavoured to avoid being paternal towards James, Lewis had made the decision to do whatever he could to ensure James didn’t work, starve, or smoke himself into an early grave.

 


	5. 13 January – Monday – Morning

 

One of the nicest parts of having James sleeping on the couch was waking up to the noise and movement of another person in the flat.  Lewis had adjusted to sleeping and eating alone – he didn’t always like it, but he’d learned to live with it – however, he’d never become used to the heavy silence in the mornings.  Bringing Monty into his home had gone some way towards easing that, especially as Monty could be quite demanding if breakfast was late, dragging his bowl across the kitchen floor and calling out in what Lewis had interpreted as disgust at the appalling service on offer.  Though it wasn’t just about noise.  He and James would often go from waking to leaving the flat having said barely twenty words to each other, yet understanding exactly what the other needed and what was to be done.  Such a connection with another was rare, and every day Lewis was grateful for the small miracle in his life called James Hathaway.

Lewis roused himself as the rich aroma of coffee drifted through to the bedroom.  It didn’t seem right that James had to sleep on the couch.  Maybe it was time to invest in a decent sofa bed, or better yet, a larger flat.  Lyn was always hinting they’d visit more often if it weren’t for the cost of a hotel room.  He’d like to see them more.  It would be a win all around.  Lewis made his way to the kitchen.

“Morning, sir.”

As usual, James looked slightly ridiculous in the too-short tracky bottoms and oversized jersey he always borrowed to sleep in during the colder months.

“Morning.”  Lewis stepped up beside James, who was whisking eggs.  He tugged at the hem of the jersey.  "You ever go to bring over some clothes to keep here?  I’ve told you there’s plenty of room.”

“Nothing wrong with what I’m wearing.”

“If you like it, that’s fine.  I was thinking it’d save you some time in the morning if you didn’t have to go home to get dressed for work.”

“It’s not that far out of the way.”

“That’s not the point.”

James concentrated on the eggs.  “I’d feel like I was intruding; this is your home.”

“You’re here almost as much as I am.  You wouldn’t be intruding at all.”

James’s hand stilled and he turned to Lewis with a smirk.  “But how would I decide what to keep here and what to leave in my flat?  Heaven forbid my socks don’t match my tie or my tie clashes with my shirt.”

“Oh, I’m sure that analytical mind of yours could come up with a system.”

A slow blink.  A pause.  “Perhaps I could.”  A huffed laugh.  “I’m afraid I finished off the bread last night, so unless you have a loaf tucked away somewhere, it’s only mushroom and cheese omelette and coffee.”

“Fine with me.  It’s never ‘only’ when you’ve made omelettes.  You’ve a light touch.  Mine always turn out tough.”

“The trick is not to over-whisk.”  James turned his attention to the frying pan heating on the cooktop.  “You’ve about ten minutes or so if you want to shower first.”

Lewis took the gentle hint and left James to himself.  James began to hum a tune Lewis didn’t recognise, but it sounded… old.

 

**********

 

James placed the folder on Lewis’s desk next to his mug of tea.  “Detailed forensics on the car.”

“Summary?”

“There was damage to the rear driver’s side panel which is inconsistent with the crash scene.  They’re testing now to determine how recently it occurred, but the visual inspection would indicate it’s quite recent.  They’re hoping to have those results back this afternoon or first thing tomorrow morning.  I’ve asked Gurdip if he or one of his colleagues can trace Brayden’s car on CCTV, starting from the restaurant, and working on the theory he took the Headington roundabout.  He’ll use 11pm as a starting point.”

“So another car could have been involved?”

“It’s looking more likely.”

“Think it’s fairly safe to assume it’s not his sister.  Maybe this Caulfield bloke?”

“Should we bring Susan Brayden up from the custody suite?” James asked.  “See if there’s anything else she’d like to tell us.  She gave up Caulfield’s details easily enough.”

“Has she asked for a solicitor yet?”

“Not that I’ve been made aware off.”

“And you’ve heard back on the application to the magistrate to hold her for the additional twelve hours?”

James nodded.  “Sergeant Knoakes was on duty yesterday afternoon, and he sent me an email at,” James checked his email.  “–4.12pm.”

Lewis considered their options.  “Let’s hold off having another chat with Ms Brayden for now – we’ve plenty of time.  Based on what her housemate told me, she was at home at the time of the accident, and Ms Jamieson didn’t hear anyone come to the house, nor hear Susan talking to anyone.  I think I’d like to hear what this Caulfield bloke has to say first.  When’s he due in?”

“Noon.”

 

* * *

 

Susan sat on the low platform that supposedly doubled as a bed.  That was a joke: she’d slept on softer floors.  She hugged her legs close to her chest, rested her chin on her knees, and started to rock slowly.  Thirty-six hours was a bloody long time when the only thing you could do was think.

She wanted someone to tell her exactly what had happened to her brother.  Specifically, she wanted Len to explain.  She’d been allowed to read the morning paper where Carl’s death was front-page news, though the article said the police only suspected murder.  What if the copper had been bluffing?  _Shit._   Susan tried to think back over everything she’d said, grasping to remember if there was anything that could put her or the organisation in trouble.  She supposed she could ask to read her own statement again; surely she had a right to do that?

Thirty-six fucking hours.  They’d done it to scare her.  She hadn’t been charged with anything, and she hadn’t done anything.  As long as she sat tight, she’d be out sometime tonight without anyone’s assistance.  Graham wasn’t going to send in the cavalry.  He was going to let her stew.  _Bastard._

Her arse started to grow numb.  She stood and started to pace, rolling gently from side to side like a sailor on deck to loosen up her hips.  Raised voices on the other side of the door halted her circuit.  Someone was putting the duty officer in his place.

“Sergeant, I don’t care what’s written on the board; I want to see that approval.”

“Sir, if you’d like to–”

“It has been over twenty-four hours since my client was confined.  You have no grounds to hold her any longer.”

“Sir, the board is–”

“Wrong, sergeant.  However, if you can show me the approval, I’ll leave immediately.”

Susan leant her head against the door.  She heard papers being flicked, some muffled words, then computer keys tapping.

“Well, sergeant?”

“Sir, if you can just give me a moment, I’m sure we can get this all cleared up.”

“I don’t have a moment, nor does my client: can you show me the extension or not?"

“Mr, er...”

“Graves.”

“Mr Graves, the senior officer on duty yesterday wouldn’t have listed 10pm beside your client’s name without good reason.”

“Then you should be able to produce some evidence of the extension.  I was advised she was placed in custody at 10am yesterday; can you at least confirm that?”

“Yes, sir, but–”

“And the law states you can only hold her for twenty-four hours without a magistrate’s approval.”

“Yes, sir, but–”

A young woman spoke up.  “You could try ringing the requesting officer.  Sergeant Knoakes is Mr ‘By-The-Book’; he would have advised them.”

The sergeant (Susan assumed it was the sergeant; maybe the woman was the sergeant) was getting impatient.  “Without the copy of the authorisation, I don't know who the requesting officer was.”

“I haven't got all day.”  That was the Graves bloke again.  Susan had heard that snarly note in others before; it wasn’t a good sign.

The woman sighed heavily.  “Look in the sent items.  The detainee’s name will be in the subject line.”

“Nothing.”  He sounded disgusted.

“Want me to have a look?” she asked.

“Knock yourself out.  You checked the file, didn’t you?”

“Twice.”

“What about the bins?”

“Bins?”

“Things get thrown out.”  _He’s bloody grasping,_ Susan thought.  She nearly snorted with laughter when she heard something metallic and hollow hit a solid surface.  _God, they are going through the bin!_

“Nothing.”  Now she sounded defeated.  Susan wished she could see their faces.

“Try the other one.”

A throat was cleared loudly.  “May I make a suggestion?”  Graves.  “There was no extension, and the sergeant meant to write 10am.  It’s a simple enough error.”

Susan held her breath as silence fell outside the cell.  She heard some muttered words along with the sound of metal being pushed or dragged across a surface.

“This way, sir,” came a disgruntled grumble.

“I do hope other systems in this station are run more efficiently.”

Something banged against Susan’s door, and she stumbled back until her legs pressed against the platform.  The door swung open and an officer stepped into the space.  It wasn’t the kindly faced sergeant who’d locked her in here the day before.  Another man towered behind him.  He was tall and thin and his face made her think of Lurch from _The Addams Family_.  He was so rangy he looked like he’d go tumbling in a stiff breeze.  Susan had no idea who he was.  He took a step inside.

“Ms Brayden, I’m Evan Graves.  I must apologise for not getting here sooner – the traffic was a nightmare.  If you’d like to come with me, I have to get you home and be somewhere else five minutes ago.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“I’m your solicitor.”

“I don’t… oh.”  _Bloody hell.  Graham’s come through._  “Right.  Graham.”

At the mention of Graham’s name, Graves seemed to shrink.  He rushed into the cell, stopping scant inches in front of Susan.

“Yes, but best not to mention any names in here.  In fact, don’t say anything once you’re out of this cell.  The walls have ears and the police like to ask questions.”

“Can I go?  The coppers said the magistrate would make sure I was here for thirty-six hours.”

“Graham has… don’t you worry about that.”

“Oh.  That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Not if we don’t get out of here now.”  He tugged lightly on her arm.

She stood her ground.  “Do you know what happened to Carl?”

“Only what was in the paper.  Please.  We have to go now.”

Susan had to walk quickly to keep up with the long strides of Evan Graves.  They passed the desk where the officer who’d opened her cell was scowling as he turned the pages in a file.  Behind him, a female officer was flattening out papers.  A bin stood on the counter top beside her.

“Shit, not these, either,” she muttered as she scrunched the papers up again and tossed them to one side, where they joined a small pile.

“You've both been most helpful,” Graves intoned. 

Susan was amused to see the woman flinch, and then was caught by surprise when Graves took hold of her elbow and pushed her through the door into the corridor.

“Hey, you’re hurting me.”  She twisted around to glare at him even as he pushed her forward.

“We have to get out of here as quickly as possible, before anyone– Shit.”  Graves stopped dead.

Susan, whose feet were still moving forward, was pulled back towards Graves, hitting him in the chest.  She looked up at the solicitor’s horrified face then followed his gaze face.  A man she knew stood at a door halfway along the corridor.  What the hell was Graham doing in the bowels of a police station?  Susan’s stomach plummeted.  _Christ._   She’d said something that had got him arrested, hadn’t she?  He looked furious.  Susan felt Graves’s trembling where his hand still gripped her arm.  Why was he scared?  Susan opened her mouth but the words failed to form. 

Susan stared as Graham turned on his heel and walked away from them, towards and through the door marked ‘Exit’.  _So he’s not under arrest?_ She started to relax.  _Then why…?_   Oh, of course.  He must have been there to sort out the magistrate business, though she didn’t understand exactly why he’d have to be at the station to do that, or why there’d been all that confusion, and it certainly didn’t explain why Graves was shaking.

Graves made a strangled sound and pushed her up the corridor in the direction Graham had gone.  He whispered sharply in her ear.  “You’d better pray we don’t see him again today.”

 

* * *

 

Peterson appeared at their door, with a file in hand.  “Heard you nabbed someone for cocaine possession yesterday.”

“Aye.”  Lewis barely glanced up.

Peterson stepped into the office.  “All drugs cases are supposed to come through to me.”

Lewis put his pen down and leant back in his chair.  “I understood that directive only related to those cases which involved suspected dealing?  This was one small bag for personal use – report stated there was a bit under half a-gram in the bag, and the analysis indicated it was barely one-quarter cocaine.”

“Even so, someone had to supply it to her,” Peterson persisted; his smile was beginning to grate on Lewis.

“Her brother, she says.”

“And…”

“He won’t be able to give you any information – we’re looking into his murder.”

“When did you pick up a murder?  I heard you had a road traffic accident and the drugs were found in the car.”

“You’ve heard a lot.”

“I keep my ear to the ground.”

“The drug was found in a handbag inside the car – the brother was the sole occupant.  The accident became a murder when Dr Hobson found evidence of foul play.”

“Oh.  Right.”  Peterson exhaled heavily.  “If I can help in any way…”

“We’re fine, man.”

For a long moment, Lewis thought Peterson was going to make another attempt to ingratiate himself into the investigation.  Then Peterson looked at James as though seeing him for the first time.  Peterson’s sudden air of smug amusement, and the beeline he made for James’s desk, put Lewis on edge.

“Thought you might find this… curious.”  Peterson pulled a single sheet of paper from the file he held and dropped it on James’s desk.  “My neighbour’s son – nice kid – was showing me the research he’s been doing for his Year 13 history paper.”  He tapped the page.  Lewis stretched his neck to see Peterson’s finger above an image.  “This could be you.”  Peterson’s tone was almost accusing.  “Distant relative?”

James never took his eye off Peterson as he picked up the paper.  When he did look at it, Lewis noticed the slight twitch at the corner of James’s eye, which signalled Peterson had hit a nerve.  Lewis wondered if James knew about the tell.

James stared coolly back at Peterson.  “Pure coincidence.  Newspaper sketches from that era are quite generic.”  He held the paper out.

Peterson waved it away.  “You hold on to it.  I’d be curious to know if anything comes to mind.  I’d swear on a stack of bibles, that that’s you.  Even you have to admit there’s a definite resemblance.”

“I’ve also been told that from the right angle I have more than a passing resemblance to Prince Charles,” James said dryly, “but I can assure you we’re not related either.”

Peterson’s phone beeped twice.

Lewis cleared his throat.  “This is all very amusing, man, but if you don’t mind, we’ve a murderer to catch.”

“And I have somewhere else I need to be,” Peterson murmured, scowling at his phone.  He rushed off.

James balled up the paper and dropped it in his bin.

“The man’s a complete tosser… sir.”

“Won’t get any argument off me.”

James stood and seemed to shrug Peterson’s presence off his shoulders.  “I’m going out for a smoke then I’m grabbing a coffee.  Do you want to come?”

“Nah, but thanks.”

“Shall I bring you back anything?”

“Nah, I’m good.  Take your time; Caulfield’s not due for,” Lewis looked at his watch “–another forty-five minutes.”

Lewis waited until James left the outer office.  He then retrieved the paper from the bin, and smoothed it out.  Something had bothered the lad, and he wanted to know what it was.

It was a copy of an article from _The Manchester Guardian_ , dated July 1855, accompanied with a head and shoulders sketch of a man.  Lewis held it under his desk lamp, then by the window to see if natural light made a difference.  No matter which way he looked at it, Lewis had to agree with Peterson; it did look remarkably like James.

‘The Curious Disappearance of Magistrate Edwin Hattaway,’ was the caption beneath the image.  Even the surname was similar.  Lewis carefully folded the paper and tucked into his inside jacket pocket, before screwing up another piece of paper and dropping it into James’s bin.  Lewis’s curiosity was piqued enough for him to want to hold on to the image and read the article, and he saw no point in riling the lad even more by making it obvious.

James walked back in moments later without a drink and with his cigarette packet in his hand.

“Mr Caulfield’s arrived early.  Shall we see him or make him wait?”

“Forty bloody minutes early.  You go have your smoke and coffee, and you know what?”  Lewis stood, his chair rolling back to bump gently against the filing cabinet.  “I’ve changed me mind.  I will come with you.”

 


	6. 13 January – Monday – Afternoon

 

Lewis considered Andrew Caulfield across the table.  He was the oily type that made Lewis feel grimy – all charm on the surface, but with the stink of deceit underneath.  His jacket was stretched tightly across broad shoulders and the sleeves strained around his upper arms.  He admitted knowing Susan, but didn’t consider himself her boyfriend, as such.

“We’ve been out a few times.”

“Did you know her brother, Carl?”

“I know she’s got a brother, but I don’t know him.  We might have met when I was with Susan; I couldn’t tell you for sure, though.”

“We have a witness who saw you pick up Ms Brayden from her home on Saturday evening.  Mr Caulfield, what vehicle do you drive?”

“A Jeep.”

“Colour?”

“White.”

“Is that the only vehicle you’re known to drive?”

“I drive a truck for work.  That’s it.  What is this about?  You said Susan was in trouble.  Why am–”

“We need to confirm Ms Brayden’s whereabouts, who she was with, and where.  We know from Ms Brayden she was at her sister’s birthday dinner that evening, along with her brother – a fact confirmed by her sister.  Are you quite sure you didn’t meet Carl Brayden on Saturday night?”

“Quite sure, I didn’t even get inside the restaurant.  I got a call just as we arrived from a neighbour to say my burglar alarm was blaring.  I needed to go home and switch it off.”

“And you didn’t return?”

“No.  Susan was pretty pissed off with me.  She sent a text message telling me to… Here, read it for yourself.”  Caulfield pulled his phone from his jeans pocket and thumbed through the menu.  “There.”  He slid the phone across the table.

Autocorrect had played havoc with the message.  Lewis had never heard anyone called a ‘ducking count’ before, but he got the gist of it.

 

**********

 

Lewis lowered himself into his chair.  He’d wanted to warn Caulfield he was being watched but, so far, they had nothing to base the threat on.

James returned from escorting Caulfield out of the station and declared, “I don’t trust him.”

“You and me both, man.”

“And Susan Brayden lied about not knowing where her phone was.”

“Let’s get her back up here, James.”

James was already on the phone.

“What?” James was scowling.  “When?”

“No, no, no.  We had an extension.  I was sent an email yesterday.”

“What do you mean you don’t…?”

“Yes, from Sergeant Knoakes.”

“What do you mean, ‘there’s no record’?”

“Did you look in deleted items?”  James covered his face with his free hand.

“When’s Knoakes due back?”

“I think that would be a very wise course of action.”

“Fuck.”  James banged the phone down in the cradle.  “Susan Brayden was released into the care of a solicitor.”

Lewis jerked upright in his chair.  “She was supposed to be in custody until tonight.  What the hell happened?  And when did she call for a solicitor?”

“She was signed out at about half past ten this morning.  The custody sergeant has no record of the email from the magistrate’s office, even though a 10pm release time was noted on the board for Ms Brayden; and she didn’t call for a solicitor.  One arrived demanding her release and pushed the duty officer to produce the email from the magistrate’s office.  When it couldn’t be located…”

“Why didn’t they double check with you – or me?”

James shook his head.  “No record of the email or the application meant they didn’t know who to contact – or so they say.  It’s being reported up the chain of command as we speak.”

“What did Knoakes have to say?”

“He’s rostered off for two days.”

“Bugger!  Let’s shift this investigation up a notch.  I’ll head out and get her back in for giving a false statement, if you’ll work with Julie and dig up whatever you can on the solicitor – the custody sergeant better have his details – and on Andrew Caulfield; see if you can find any connection between either of them and Carl Brayden.  We can get someone to look into the missing email once Ms Brayden’s back in here.”

“You have your performance appraisal with Innocent in ten minutes,” James stated.  “She’ll string you up if you reschedule it a third time.”

“Buggering–”

James stood, slipped on his jacket, and then reached for his coat.  “I’ll go for Susan Brayden, and I’ll get Julie started on the background checks on my way out.”

Lewis grabbed James’s elbow.  “Don’t go by yourself – just in case.  I was going to take young Murray with me, so you might as well.”

“Paul Murray?”

“He’s an acting DC, and bright – not as bright as you, mind, but he’ll do well with good guidance.”  Lewis released James’s elbow and patted his arm.  “It’s all good experience; you remember what it was like.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

* * *

 

Susan put her feet up on the coffee table, crossing her legs at the ankles.  Her housemate, Beth, had left a note for Susan telling her she was going away for a few days and wanted Susan gone when she returned.  The police had gone through everything, ‘including my undies,’ she’d moaned in the note, and she’d ‘felt violated.’  Susan could only imagine the bullocking she would have received if Beth had been there.  They’d probably both be up on assault charges by now – bitch slapping on the top step.

“Drama queen,” Susan muttered.  “They didn’t find anything, did they?  No.”  She dragged out the last word.  “Because there was nothing to fucking find.”  Susan wasn’t a complete idiot.  She never kept a supply in the house; that was asking for trouble.  “Was thinking of getting away from here anyway.”

Susan rocked her head from side to side, crossed her arms over her chest, and closed her eyes.  Twenty minutes should do it.  She’d slept like shit in the cell, but she couldn’t go to bed.  Not yet.

She’d managed to cover her arse at work by phoning her supervisor once she was home, telling him she’d woken with a migraine and had fallen asleep after taking her medication.  He’d accepted it, offered his commiserations as a fellow sufferer, and told her if she was still feeling poorly in the morning to stay home.  That suited her, as Graves – and honestly, wasn’t he well named; he looked like he should be in one – had given her specific instructions from Graham regarding tonight and tomorrow, and they didn’t include her job.

She yawned widely, and let herself sink further into the chair.

She opened one eye at a sharp knock at the door.  “Piss off,” she mumbled under her breath.  “S’too early.”

A second knock rang down the hall, harder and more insistent than the first.

 _Christ._  Reluctantly, she let her feet drop to the floor.  Gripping the armrests of the chair, she hauled herself to her feet, every muscle in her back complaining bitterly.

“Susan, for God’s sake, let me in.  I’m freezing my arse off out here.”

 _Drew._  She checked the peephole, flinging the door open when she saw he was alone.

“God, I’m glad to see you.”  She gently cupped his cheek and leaned in to kiss him.

“No time, love.  You got your bags packed?”

“Not yet.  Had a long bath – those cells are… ugh!”  She shuddered.  “–and I was just about to have a kip.”  She slipped her fingers under the waistband of his jeans.  “Want to join me?”

She gave a startled yelp when he pulled away and pushed past her deeper into the house.

“You had instructions, Susan.  You were told to pack immediately and wait for me.  Is that right?  Or did that Graves bloke cock that up as well?”

“No, he told–  How do you know about Graves?”

“Graham’s used him before.  If you got the instruction, why aren’t you packed?  If you bugger this bit up–”

“All right, keep your shirt on.  I’ll do it now.”  This wasn’t the Drew Susan knew – or thought she knew.  He was frightening her.

“No time now, the sooner we go the better.”

She stamped her foot like a petulant child.  “Where are we going?  Why all the cloak and dagger bullshit?”

Drew gripped her upper arms, closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath.  Susan waited for him to hit her.  They all did in the end.  Instead, Drew asked quietly, “Did you get your handbag back?”

“No.  It’s evidence.  Wait?  You knew the coppers had it?”

“I had an idea.”

“Bastard.  You could have warned me.”

“No, I couldn’t have.  You know that.”

“Did you know Carl was murdered before it was in the paper?”

“Len told me.”

Susan stared at him.  “Well, that’s just bloody nice, that is.  No-one told me.  My brother, and no-one said a thing.”

“Which meant you couldn’t say anything to the police, didn’t it?  Don’t know what you’re moaning about; you couldn’t care less.  You hated him.  Which makes it even weirder that you accepted a lift from him.”

“Couldn’t say no in front of me sister and all her friends, could I?  Carl threatened to tell them everything he knew.”

“How much did he know?”

“I don’t know; that was the problem.  I didn’t know he’d followed us last week until he told me on Saturday night.”  She shrugged into her jacket and moved towards the door.

“Have you got your phone?”

“No.  I left it on the worktop Sunday morning, like I’d been told to, but it wasn’t there when Graves brought me back.”

Andrew looked puzzled.  “You didn’t have your phone when you went to the station?”

“No.  Graham’s instructions were to leave it and say I lost it.”  Caulfield gripped both her arms tighter.  “Hey!  You’re hurting me!”

“When?  When did you tell the police you lost it?”

“A couple of days ago.  Meaning, like, Wednesday, Thursday.”

“Is that what Graham told you to say?”

“Not exactly.”  Dread filled Susan.

“What did he say?”

“I was to say I lost it Saturday night, but I thought that would make them suspicious.”

“Fuck.”  He pulled her towards the door.  “We have to go now.”

“Why?”

“Because I showed the police the message you sent me on Saturday night – like Graham told me to.  Now they’ll know you lied about your phone.  That’ll make them more than bloody suspicious; they’ll be coming back.  God, you can be the most stupid…”  He yanked the door open and pushed her outside.

Susan froze on the doorstep.  “What do we do now?”

“Just shut up and get into the Jeep, will you!”  Susan ran down the few steps to the road.  Drew opened the passenger door.  “IN,” he growled at her, giving her a boost into the Jeep.

 

* * *

 

James turned into Susan Brayden’s road, his eyes scanning for a parking spot.  In the passenger seat beside him, Acting DC Paul Murray had been familiarising himself with a photograph of Susan Brayden and a summary of the case so far.  James pulled the car into a gap.

“Sir?”  Murray had asked several questions on the way over, thoughtful intelligent ones.  Lewis had been right in his assessment of Murray.

“Yes?”  James cut the ignition.

“Isn’t that Ms Brayden over there?”

James looked up through the windscreen, following the direction of Murray’s pointing finger, to see two people running for a white four-wheel drive.

“And Andrew Caulfield,” James said.

“The boyfriend?”

“Yes.  Doesn’t look like she’s being forced to go, but she doesn’t look happy either.”

“If they’re making a run for it, shouldn’t we stop them?” Murray queried.

James thought quickly.  "No.  I have an idea.  We’re going to follow them.  Carefully.”

“What do you want me to do?"

“Call it in.  I’d like to get Inspector Lewis’s input.”

Murray picked up the radio.  “Acting DC Murray, with DS Hathaway, calling for Inspector Lewis..."

 

* * *

 

Peterson checked his watch.  He estimated he had about another hour to wait, and then they’d be able to plan their next move.  Peterson had advised the duty sergeant he wasn’t to be contacted until he returned to the station, as he was at a critical point in his current investigation – that advice would even deter Innocent from contacting him – so he was startled when his phone vibrated in his pocket.  He frowned at the caller ID.

“Why are you calling me on this number?  What’s going on?”

_“Where are you?”_

“Exactly where I’m supposed to be.  You risk compromising this operation by calling me.”

_“It’s already compromised.  There needs to be a change of plan.”_

Peterson rocked back in his seat and stared at the ceiling.  “Tell me.”

 

* * *

 

At just under twenty minutes, it had been one of the shortest appraisal meetings Lewis had ever had.

“Is there anything else, ma’am?”  Lewis was fishing.  Innocent had been unusually preoccupied by something during their meeting.

She gathered up the pages pertaining to Lewis’s review and stacked them neatly in his personnel file before carefully adding the file to her out-tray.  “I received a call from the custody sergeant shortly before you arrived.  Susan Brayden is the fourth person in two months to be released after twenty-four hours because the email from the Magistrate’s Office approving an extended period in custody either never arrived in their inbox or couldn’t be located when a solicitor arrived demanding their client’s release.  In each instant, the on-duty custody sergeant had either not been on duty when the person was first placed in custody, or was absent from the suite at the time the solicitor came in.  Without the paperwork or an email trail, whoever was there hasn’t known which officer to contact.  It’s a failure in handover procedures and communication, though admittedly, contacting the requesting officer has always been a courtesy and not part of the formal procedure.”

“Well, no, but I always understood it was the custody sergeant’s responsibility – or whoever they chose to delegate it to – to print out the emails and put them on the file at the desk, so anyone filling in would know what was where and who was who.”

“They do.  At least, that’s the procedure, and in every other instance, bar these four, both emails and hard copies can be found.  It’s being investigated.”

“Why wasn’t something said after the second instance?  That’s a serious breach.”

“That will be investigated too.  Has it impacted your investigation?”

Lewis nodded.  “James and Acting DC Murray have gone out to bring Ms Brayden back in.  Her story’s been compromised and we need to find out the truth.”

“Damn.  Good luck.”

 

**********

 

Lewis returned to an empty office, though he was confident James and Murray would be back fairly soon.  Susan Brayden was going to explain her lies and give them the truth.  She was going to be charged with obstructing a police officer, so at least they wouldn’t have to worry about requesting additional holding time, and Lewis had no intention of providing police bail either.  Lewis sighed as he lowered himself into his chair, and wondered if he’d have enough time to make a cuppa.  He’d barely settled in the seat before his phone rang.

 

* * *

 

Lewis’s extension showed up on the display on Innocent’s phone.

“Lewis?”

“Ma’am, can you come down to the communications room… immediately?”

“What’s going on?”

“It’s James.  Can you come down, please?”

Innocent arrived to find Lewis standing behind Debra, one of the station’s most experienced comms officers.  She heard James’s and another’s voices coming out of the speaker on Debra’s desk.  Murray, presumably, was the other.

“Lewis?  Bring me up to date?”

“Susan Brayden, ma’am.  When James and Murray arrived at her house they saw her getting into a vehicle with Andrew Caulfield.”

“Who is…?”

“The boyfriend according to Ms Brayden.  Mr Caulfield doesn’t quite see himself that way.”

“Hang on.”  Innocent frowned.  “Weren’t you going to interview someone called Caulfield?”

“We did, ma’am.  He must have left the station and gone immediately to Ms Brayden’s.”

“I’d consider that highly suspicious.”

“So does James; as do I.  However, James doesn’t believe they’re doing a runner, although he did get the impression Susan Brayden wasn’t an entirely willing passenger.  They’re following them – I’ve authorised the surveillance.  James has a theory that if this is part of something larger, perhaps Ms Brayden and Caulfield will lead them to others.”

“So it’s not a pursuit?”

“No, ma’am.  They’re maintaining a safe distance and speed, and we have other cars heading out the same way.  There’s another unmarked car heading out to intercept James and Murray.  When they arrive, James plans to pull back and let the other car take over.”

“Roadblocks?”

“They’ve just driven through Horton-cum-Studley and are heading towards Bernwood Forest.  We’ve got two cars blocking the road behind them…”

“But?”

“There're a lot of minor roads and access tracks around and through the forest, and Caulfield's in a Jeep.”

“So if he decides to run, they might lose him.”

Murray’s voice broke through.  “Subject’s vehicle is slowing down.  There appears to be another vehicle coming in the opposite direction towards them.”  Murray’s voice faded.  He was talking to James.  “Why doesn’t he just pull over to the side, there’d be plenty of room to pass safely.”  The engine noise coming through the speaker began to slow.

“Shit.”  It was James.  “They’re blocking the road.”

“Explain, James.”  Lewis leant closer to the microphone.

“Caulfield and the second vehicle have stopped side by side; there’s no way past.”

“James, turn the car around,” Lewis ordered.  “Get out of there now.”

Murray’s voice came through.  “Second car is a silver Audi saloon, looks like an A8, regis– Driver’s getting out of the car.”

“James, turn the car around, now.”

“I am.”

“Bloody hell, sir.”  Murray.  “That’s–”

The sounds of gunshots and shattering glass stopped as abruptly as they started.

 

* * *

 

Susan’s head jerked wildly between Drew and the gun in the hand of the man standing beside Drew’s window.  Her ears were ringing with the sound of the shotgun blasts.

“What the fuck just happened?”  She thought the words must have stuck in her head, as Drew continued to stare out the side window.

Susan twisted around in her seat, pushing her feet against the floor of the car so she could see out the back window.  Another car blocked the road behind them.  Where had that come from?  The bonnet was butted against the trees at the side of the road.  The front tyre was flat, and an irregular line of… oh, God, they were bullet holes… marched from the panel behind the tyre, across and up the passenger side door to the shattered windows.  Susan pushed herself higher, pressing her head against the ceiling of the car.  It looked as though the driver’s door was open, but there was no movement.

“What the fuck just happened?”  She made herself heard this time.

The man outside leant down and stuck his face in the window.  Len.  What was he doing out here, in a suit, in the middle of the day?

Drew found his voice

“Wha…what are you doing here?  You’re supposed to be waiting for us.  Why the hell did you do that?”  Drew jerked his thumb towards the car.  “We’re supposed to be keeping a low profile.  Are you trying to bring the police down on top of us?”

The fist came from nowhere, and Drew’s head bounced off the headrest.

Len’s face was furious.  “They are the police.”

“What?” Drew squeaked.  He cradled one side of his face in his hand, covering his eye and cheek.  “You shot at the pol–”

“Did you even realise you were being followed?”

“I…”  Caulfield’s jaw hung loose.

“Were you driving with your eyes shut?”

Susan’s eyes darted between the two men’s faces: Drew’s, white, shocked, Len’s, cold and determined.  “Are they dead?” she whispered at Len.

“What do you think?”

“Why?”

“They would have followed you all the way to Oakley, and I wonder what they would have found there?”

“But you didn’t have to shoot them.”  Susan was terrified.  If Len was prepared to shoot at coppers, he wouldn’t think twice about shooting her, would he?  “You’re smart; you could have bluffed them.”

“I’m known to them.  All they had to do was recognise me or run the registration on the car; they’d make the connection, and the whole organisation would be compromised.”

Len leant in close until he was only a few inches away from Caulfield’s face.  “You should have kept your eyes open.  It’s your fault they’re dead.  Susan, get in my car.”  Len never took his eyes off Caulfield.

“No way.  You’re a nutter–”

Len raised the gun and pressed it to Caulfield’s forehead.  The sharp odour of pee filled the car.

“Get in the car now, Susan.”  Len cocked his head.  “Do you hear that?  Sirens.  Blues and twos.  We’ve probably got about five minutes or less to disappear.”

Susan fumbled with the door, gripping the grab handle and doorframe to stop herself falling out of the Jeep.  She leant against the vehicle as she walked around to the other side.  Her legs threatened to drop her to the ground.  She considered trying to run, but she doubted she’d be able to get past the car behind them before Len fired on her.

“Drew, give me your phone,” Len demanded.

Drew’s trembling hand appeared out the window.  As Susan watched, Len dropped the phone in his trouser pocket.  He produced a second identical phone from his jacket and tossed it in the car.

“The only numbers you need for the next few days are programmed.  Only Graham and I have the number.  Do not give it out to anyone.  You’ll get yours back when it’s safe to do so.  Now get out of here, get rid of the car, and meet us at the other house.”

“But that place is–”  Drew cowered as Len lunged at him.

“Just do as you’re fucking told, and this time, bloody well make sure you’re not followed.”

Drew’s tyres spun, throwing up a cloud of dust as he skidded off up the road. 

Len grabbed hold of Susan’s arm and dragged her towards his car.  He pushed her in through the open driver’s door, ignoring her yelp of pain when the gear stick dug into her hip and she battered her knee against the console.  She was still trying to put her seatbelt on when Len accelerated rapidly and threw the car into a hard right turn, spinning it 180 degrees to follow after Drew.  Susan was thrown against the door, striking her head against the glass.

Len’s car ran so quietly she could hear the approaching sirens.  They were drawing nearer.  Susan’s head pounded and she thought she was going to throw up.  Being done for drugs was one thing, but now…  _Fuck, fuck, fuck._   This was not how her week was supposed to go.  She’d been looking forward to drinks with a couple of the girls from work on Wednesday, and then there was a hen’s night on Friday.  She was going to go out and party, and if she made a bit on the side, then good for her.  Susan slid down in the seat as Len negotiated the roads.

She looked out the window then risked a glance at Len.

“You can stop shitting yourself.”  He threw her a look of pity.  “My orders were to intercept you, get you away from the police, and see you to safety.  Drew can look after himself.”

“Why didn’t you just say that?  Why did you have to be such a complete–?”

“Because Drew needed to learn a lesson and you needed to remember who pulls the strings.”

Susan fell silent until they turned off the road towards an unfamiliar house.

“Where are we going?”

“Where Graham wants you to be.”

“In the Jeep, Drew said… I thought we were going to–”

“You were.  Hawker doesn’t want you there now.”

Susan shrank down in the seat at Hawker’s name.

The gravel driveway took them around the back of a rundown farmhouse.

“Who lives here?”

“No-one usually.”

“How–”

Len hit the brakes hard.  Susan lurched forward and the seatbelt cut into her neck.  Len grabbed her arm and yanked her towards him

“Enough with the bloody questions.  You’ll be told what you need to know: accept that!”

Susan’s anger overrode her common sense.  “Well, I need to know how _you_ knew the police were following us.  And how the hell did you find us?”

Len pulled her closer and spoke in a cold whisper.  “How did I know?  You don’t need to know that detail.  How did I find you?  You don’t need to know that either.”

 


	7. 13 January – Monday – Late afternoon/evening

 

Lewis had his seatbelt off and the car door open before the constable brought the vehicle to a complete stop.

Blue and white police tape separated the new arrivals from James’s car.  From his view through the windscreen, Lewis had a clear view of the driver’s side.  The vehicle had come to a stop with its front tyres in a shallow ditch; however, it was undoubtedly the trees that had blocked the car’s progress. 

Lewis had been ready to leap from the car, but he now found himself frozen to the seat.  The driver’s door of James’s car was wide open and the window was shattered, as was the blood-spattered windscreen.  Lewis’s world narrowed to the empty driver’s seat. 

“Robbie.”  The voice was gentle.  A hand rested on his shoulder and his head snapped around to see Innocent watching him with deep concern.  “Perhaps you should stay here,” she said.

“No.”  He shook his head emphatically.  “No, I have to know what they’ve found.”

“You can’t get involved, Robbie.”

“I’m hands off.  I understand.  Who’ll–?”

“I want to talk to the Chief Constable and get her approval on my proposal before I say anything definitive.”

Lewis nodded, closed his eyes, and took several deep breaths.  He exited the car as quickly and as carefully as he dared.  If Innocent could see the way he was shaking inside, she’d pack him back to the station in an instant.

Lewis headed for DC Hooper and PC Julie Lockhart where they stood at the rear of the car.  Beyond them, and in the woods on either side of the road, white-suited SOCO officers methodically searched.

“I’ll ask the questions, Robbie,” Innocent murmured beside him.

“Ma’am.”  Hands off was hands off.

“Hooper, Julie.  Update please.”

Hooper swallowed before speaking.  Under normal circumstances, Lewis would have expected an officer with Hooper’s years of experience to be more composed, but – although there were those who said they shouldn’t – when a colleague was the victim, all the rules changed.

“Ma’am.  Acting DC Murray was deceased when we arrived.  DS Hathaway is nowhere to be found.”

“What?  Has he wandered off?  Been taken?”

Lewis fought to stay silent as his stomach tightened.

“It… SOCO keep saying it’s too soon to form any theories.”

“They must have something.”

Hooper glanced at Julie.

“Constable Lockhart?”  Innocent took a step towards her.

Julie cleared her throat.  “The softer ground beside the driver’s door has been disturbed, but there are no clearly discernible footprints or handprints to indicate someone may have walked away or… been on the ground.  SOCO are having trouble finding any footprints or other indications anyone has been moving around here recently, except over there.”  She pointed to two knots of SOCO officers who were concentrating on the edges of the road.  “That’s where two vehicles pulled up next to each other.  SOCO are attempting to take impressions of the tracks, but,” she referred to her notebook, “–the soil composition and recent weather conditions are making it problematic.”

“And James?”  Lewis pointedly ignored Innocent’s glare.

Julie, to her credit, continued to address the Chief Superintendent.  “In the absence of footprints, SOCO are looking for other indicators – I’m afraid I don’t know any more about that.  However, the driver’s door was open when the first car got here, and SOCO haven’t found any blood on the driver’s seat, window, door, or steering wheel.”

“None?”

“No, ma’am.  In fact, apart from his phone connected to the hands-free unit, there’s no sign Sergeant Hathaway was in the vehicle.”

“Thank you, Julie.”

“Do you have any gloves, Julie?” Lewis asked.  Hooper produced a wrapped pair from his pocket and Lewis nodded his thanks.  He snapped them on, putting the packaging in his pocket, and walked around to the driver’s side.  SOCO had placed three raised metal steps along the side to protect the ground underneath and Lewis used them to reach the driver’s door.  Looking down, he could see where the soft ground beside the car had been churned up.  He thought it was possible someone – James – had fallen and struggled to stand up, but that was because he wanted to believe James had gotten away, and hadn’t been abducted, or worse. 

Lewis crouched down and looked inside the car.  James’s keys were still in the ignition, and his phone, its screen shattered, sat in the driver’s footwell near the brake pedal.  Lewis presumed it had been jarred out of the holder on the centre console, and although it hadn’t been hit by a bullet, it had been struck forcibly by something – a foot perhaps.  The driver’s seatbelt was partially retracted; a twist in the webbing had impeded it.  Lewis’s blood ran cold as he examined the seat.  There were two bullet holes in the headrest.

“Robbie.”

Lewis looked up and met Laura’s gaze, and he let himself see Murray for the first time.  The young DC was held in place by his seatbelt.  His head was slumped forward, as though he’d fallen asleep on a long drive, but no-one would be fooled into thinking that’s all it was.  Laura’s eyes told him everything he needed to know: Murray hadn’t stood a chance.

“It’s little consolation…”  Laura lowered her eyes.  “–but Murray wouldn’t have suffered.  It was quick.  The blood… it’s from the impact of the bullets; it’s spatter, not spray.  His heart stopped after the first shot.”

James – where he was, how he was – hung unspoken between them.  Lewis stood up.  Behind him, the crunch of tyres signalled the arrival of more vehicles.  The sound of opening doors was quickly followed by excited barking: the Dog Section.

“James, lad, where are you?” Lewis whispered.  He feared the worst.

 

**********

 

A pot of cooling tea sat in the middle of the dining table.  PC Janis Hanlon occupied a chair with her back towards the front door.  Lewis sat across the table from her, slowly turning his now empty cup.  He stared over her shoulder at the door, waiting.  Lewis was quite aware of the constable, who was part of the family liaison team, but had no energy to talk.  Neither had said anything since they’d arrived here shortly after six.  A small voice told him he was being a terrible host.

He wanted Laura or Innocent, but most of all he wanted James.  Laura had gone with Murray’s body; she wanted to be there when his family arrived.  Innocent had gone in to the station to meet with the Chief Constable and DI Laxton.  If the Chief Constable gave her approval, they would assume control of the investigation immediately.

During the seemingly interminable ride back to his flat, Innocent had warned Lewis the Chief Constable might want to bring in a DCI from another constabulary.  Lewis wasn’t a fool.  In cases where an officer was murdered, it wasn’t uncommon to bring in a neutral officer who wouldn’t be affected by personal grief.  Lewis held on to the hope the Chief Constable would trust her officers to be balanced and reasoned.

Lewis pulled a hand down his face.  His cheeks and chin felt like sandpaper, and his eyes stung.  The first search for James had been called off as the winter night had crept in.  It would officially resume at first light; however, the four officers from the Dog Section had volunteered to stay on the scene until it was too cold for their dogs.  It had taken both Laura and Innocent to convince Lewis to leave the site.

“You need to rest.  You’ll be no use to anyone, Robbie.”  Laura had draped a blanket over his shoulders as he rested against the bonnet of a car.

“How far could he have got?  He could be lying out there…”  Lewis had gestured feebly towards the darkening woods.

“Robbie, stop.”  Innocent had planted herself in front of him, with her shoulders pressed back and her hands on her hips.  “Please, get in the car.  I don’t want to order you to go home but I will if I have to.”

No-one had said what they were all thinking.  The dogs should have been able to find some trace of James long before now, unless James had been abducted, carried out of the car.  Lewis knew from experience that wasn’t an easy task, even if James did look like a long streak of nothing.

Lewis nodded when PC Hanlon raised the teapot, and pushed his cup across the table.  He added milk, and sipped at the lukewarm beverage.  It all seemed so senseless.  James and Murray had made no approach to the car.  They’d been turning around, for God’s sake.  Why had they been shot?  Who or what could they have possibly seen?

Lewis’s mobile buzzed across the table.  Innocent.  Lewis didn’t think it was possible to feel any hollower.

“Ma’am?”

“Robbie, I’m sending a car for you:  James is at the JR.”  Lewis gave a shuddering gasp.  “He’s alive, Robbie.  He’s in A&E.  Promise me you’ll wait for the car.”

Lewis stammered out a reassurance.  He wasn’t sure he could stand, let alone drive.

James was alive.

 


	8. 13 January – Monday – Night

 

Peterson watched police cars coming and going, as one shift ended and another began.  The back of the station was a bleak place to be on a night like this.  Nothing had gone as it was supposed to today.

He stepped from the shelter of the doorway into the icy blast and walked beyond the comforting glow of the halogen lights.

The word had flown around the station.  One officer dead.  One missing.  How the hell could that have happened?

Unforgivable mistakes had been made.

Peterson pulled his jacket tighter around him and double-checked he had everything he needed.  He bowed his head and headed for the rear of the carpark where his motorcycle, a much-admired Yamaha FJR1300 Touring bike, was parked under the eaves of an outbuilding.  Helen Laxton had given him grief the first time she’d seen him ride it into the station.

“You’re a bloody show pony, Alan,” she’d said to him.  “You should get yourself a decent car, especially with our weather.”

He had a decent car, more than bloody decent.  If Laxton thought the bike made him a show pony, he dreaded the words she’d use if she saw the saloon he’d acquired shortly after arriving in Oxford.  Driving that into the station car park, now that would have made him a show pony and guaranteed unwanted attention.

The rain grew heavier, and thin shards of ice bit into the exposed skin at the back of his neck as the sleet began to fall again.  Even with all his protective gear, it was going to be a long, uncomfortable ride home.  Under the lee of the eaves, he removed several items from his pockets and under his jacket, and stowed them in the hard top case.  Then he slipped the leather gloves on over the thinner ones he’d donned while still inside the station.

 

* * *

 

A uniformed constable was hovering at the entrance to A&E as the car pulled up.  She hurried over, opening the door in the manner of a valet or chauffeur.

“This way, sir.”  Lewis was barely out of the car.  “CS Innocent’s… up to date.”

The pause tightened the already crippling knot in Lewis’s gut.  When he finally saw Innocent, it went back to being merely crippling.  She was talking with a doctor, and her manner was completely business-like, which by itself meant little until you took in her relaxed posture: whatever had happened to James, he was not in any imminent danger.

“Ma’am.”  The constable’s voice was raised above the murmur of the noise in the waiting room, loud enough to be heard by the recipient, not so loud as to attract unnecessary attention.  She stepped aside to let Lewis pass her.

“Robbie, this is Dr Kennedy.”  Innocent made the introductions.  “Dr Kennedy, can you please repeat what you’ve just told me.”  The doctor hesitated.  “Dr Kennedy, Detective Inspector Lewis is Detective Sergeant Hathaway’s partner.  You won’t be breaching hospital rules on privacy or the confidentiality of your patient.”

‘Partner’ implied many things.  Lewis didn’t care which meaning the doctor chose to ascribe to the word, as long as he told Lewis about James.

Kennedy cleared his throat.  “Shall we go through here?”  He opened a door which led to a small office.  Another door opposite the first entered into the ward.  With much of the noise now muted, he continued.  “Mr Hathaway was brought in an hour ago.”

“By who?” Lewis interjected.

“Robbie.”  Innocent laid a hand on his arm and spoke kindly.  “James’s condition first, questions later; and as it’s connected to the investigation, I’ll have to be the one who asks them.  Is that okay?”

Lewis wanted to yell, “No, it’s bloody well not,” but he knew she was right.  “Ma’am,” was all he said.

Dr Kennedy exhaled.  “Mr Hathaway appears completely uninjured; however, he is very disoriented and confused.  Though there’s no indication of head trauma, we’ll be sending him for a CT scan as soon as possible, just to rule that out.”

Lewis bit his tongue and fixed his gaze on Innocent.

“Can we see him now?”  Innocent asked.  “You did say once he was settled–”

“He’s still quite agitated.”  Dr Kennedy prevaricated.  “We’re considering sedat–”

“Perhaps the sight of some familiar faces will help.”  Innocent lightly touched the doctor’s arm and gently nudged him towards the inner door.

Despite his own jangled nerves, Lewis had to admit Innocent in action was a sight to behold.

“Five minutes.”  Dr Kennedy was determined to stay in control.  “And we’ll be keeping him overnight at the very least, pending the results of the scan.”

They kept moving forward past staff and patients in curtained cubicles.  “And when do you anticipate he’ll get the scan done,” Innocent asked smoothly.

“It’s been a busy night; possibly not before 6am.”

He led them down another corridor and into another ward.

Lewis heard James before he saw him.

“Is he here yet?  Is anyone here yet?”

“Please, sir,” came an impatient voice – James must have been making a right nuisance of himself.  “If you’ll just lie back down, someone will be here soon.”

Lewis hurried past the doctor and Innocent, rushing into the room the voices had come from.

“James!”

“Rob– Sir!”  James lurched upright, relief relaxing his whole body as far as Lewis could see.

“Excuse me, sir!  You just can’t come–”

“It’s all right, Jackie.”  Dr Kennedy made a swift entrance, with Innocent hard on his heels.  “Inspector Lewis is permitted.”  He turned to Lewis.  “He recognises you: that’s an excellent sign.”

“Aye.”  Lewis stood at the end of the bed and looked James over.  Apart from the clip on his finger measuring his vitals, and the hospital gown, which would no doubt be too short if James stood up, he looked no different to the sleep rumpled man who’d make breakfast this morning.  Was it so recently?  _Rob.  Robbie?_   James had never called him Robbie, except for a couple of times when he was taking the mickey.

“James, how are you?”  Innocent stepped up to the side of the bed, interrupting Lewis’s train of thought.

“I’m…”  James’s mouth hung open.  He looked at Lewis.  “Physically, I’m fine, but I can’t remember anything after leaving the station with Murray until I was in Father Anthony’s car.”

“Father Anthony?”  Lewis took hold of the railing at the end of the bed and leant forward.

“Lewis,” Innocent warned, her tone unmistakeable.

James looked confusedly between his two superiors.  “Ma’am?  Sir?”

“It’s alright, James.”  Innocent lightly touched his shoulder.  “Inspector Lewis has been advised all questions are to come from me at this stage.”

“Has something happened?  Have I done something?”  James’s body went rigid.  Behind him, the monitor showed a rapid increase in both his heart rate and respiration.

“No, James, nothing like that.”

Dr Kennedy harrumphed.  “If you’re going to upset–”

“I’m fine,” James blurted out, and lay back against the pillows as if to prove the point.  The monitor made a liar of him, but Dr Kennedy backed down.

Innocent sat on the edge of the bed, turning her back to the others in the room.  “James, who is Father Anthony and why were you in his car?”

“Father Anthony’s my priest.  As to why I was there…?”  James looked bewildered and shook his head.  “You’d have to ask him.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“I believe he’s still waiting outside,” Dr Kennedy answered.  “He said he’d wait until the police spoke to him.  I thought it a little odd at the time; most people only want to know about the patient’s condition.  If the police are involved, they usually scarper.”

Innocent considered the doctor’s statement.  “I’d say in this case, this Father Anthony would know James is a serving police officer, and that one of us would be here sooner rather than later.”

What she didn’t say, Lewis thought, was that, so far, no-one had mentioned James’s next of kin, or any family for that matter.  Lewis wasn’t aware of any, except for a deceased aunt, and a father James had never mentioned since their case at Crevecoeur.  If his priest wasn’t expecting family members, then perhaps James was alone in the world.

Innocent’s touch startled Lewis.  “I’ll go speak to Father Anthony,” she said.  “You stay here.”  She then nudged Lewis towards the only chair in the room, sitting at the side of the bed.  Giving James’s shoulder a squeeze, she left.

Lewis looked James over.  “It’s good to see you.  I thought…”

“What happened?” James whispered.

“Do you really not remember?”

James lowered his head, looking at his hands in his lap.  “Murray and I took my car.  We were going out to bring Susan Brayden back in.  The next thing I remember is Father Anthony’s face.”

“What’ve you been told?”  Lewis chose his words carefully.  If he prompted or led James, Innocent would have his guts for garters.

“Possible blow to the head, but with none of the usual symptoms – I don’t even have a headache.  ‘It’s a disruption of your short term memory.’  ‘People lose anything from five minutes to a couple of days.’  What time is it?  What day is it?”

“Half nine, Monday night.  The same Monday.  You’ve…lost something like eight, eight and a half hours.”  James mumbled something which sounded oddly like, “Eight.  Not great; not too bad.”  Perhaps he had taken a blow to the head.  At least it wasn’t a bullet.  Lewis immediately regretted the thought, remembering Murray and his family, who would have received the shattering news by now.

James slowly raised his head to look at Lewis, his face stricken.

“James?  What’s the matter?  Do you want the doctor?”

James shook his head.  “In the Father’s car… he had the radio on.  The announcer broke in with a report about a police officer being killed.  Father Anthony said something about needing to listen to something more cheerful, and switched to a CD.  Was it…?”

Lewis scooted forward on the chair and reached across the bed to cover James’s trembling hands.  “It was Murray,” he said softly.

“What happened?”

Innocent’s warnings be damned, Lewis thought.  “He was shot, James.”  He didn’t want James to hear it first in an interview room or see it in a newspaper.  James deserved to be told by someone he trusted.

James coughed.  “What?”

“No more questions tonight, James.”  Innocent stood in the doorway, scowling at Lewis.  “You need to rest, let the doctors check you over properly.”

“But, ma’am!” James protested.

“He heard it on the radio, ma’am,” Lewis explained.  “A few facts aren’t going to change anything, and better James hears it from you or me.”

“Very well,” Innocent said softly, sadly.

Lewis realised he still held James’s hands in his own.  He kept them there.  “You were ambushed in Bernwood Forest.  Single shooter as far as we can tell.  Murray was killed instantly.  Somehow, you… got away.  Your car was found with the driver’s door open, but there was neither hide nor hair of you.  We didn’t know what had happened until…”

“Father Anthony brought me here,” James finished.

For the first time in years, Lewis couldn’t read James’s expression or body language.  He had no idea what was going through James’s mind.

“About Father Anthony–” Lewis began.

“He’s gone home for the night, but will come in to the station to make a formal statement tomorrow.”  Innocent approached the bed.  “I’m going back to the station to file a report.  James, you will do everything the doctors, and nurses, ask of you.  Lewis, you’ll be of more help to James if you can get some sleep – in your own bed.  James is in safe hands, and I’ve told the nurses to throw you out at midnight if you’re still here.”

Lewis didn’t doubt that for one moment.

 

* * *

  

The weather and the late hour saw the roads unusually quiet.  The streetlights were out again.  Peterson wasn’t even certain they’d been restored since they’d gone out the previous night.  He eased the motorcycle around the final corner before home and started to relax.

“Shit!”

The dark-coloured saloon was parked in the middle of the road in front of his home, right on the bend.  Without its lights, it was invisible until Peterson was almost on top of it.  He braked sharply and tried to steer around it.  He would have made it safely if he hadn’t hit ice.  Feeling the bike sliding under him, Peterson threw himself off to one side, aiming for the small grassed area and not the solid road.  His hip slammed against one kerb, and the riderless bike came to rest on the other side of the road.  Peterson rolled onto his back and tried to sit up only to be stopped by a shooting pain in his hip.

“What the f–”

“Give it to me.”

The voice came from above Peterson.  Through the tinted visor of his helmet, he could make out a portly figure, bundled up against the cold, standing over him.  “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” Peterson managed to groan.

Something hit him hard in the chest, and Peterson found himself hauled to his feet.  Before he could get his balance, a fist buried itself in his lower abdomen.  He only stayed upright because of the other man’s grip on his jacket.

“Don’t play me for a fool, Alan.”

Peterson stifled another moan.  “Okay, okay,” he gasped.  The helmet made it nearly impossible for him to see if anyone in the houses was watching.  The last thing he wanted was his neighbours calling the police.  “It’s in the top case on the bike.  It’s not locked.”

Peterson was released and dropped like a stone to the ground.  Searing pain shot up his side.  _Christ_.  He pushed himself up so he was sitting with his arse on the kerb, and fumbled with the chinstrap.  He managed to remove his helmet in time to see the other man take an oilskin wrapped bundle from the place Peterson had secured it – or so he thought – barely twenty minutes earlier.

“Thank you.  I have need of this tonight.”

Peterson lowered his head to his knees.

The sound of the departing saloon had long disappeared before Peterson made any move to pick up his motorcycle.  Around him, the street was silent and dark.  If the police had been called, there would be some sort of movement or sound by now.

Peterson struggled to his feet.  He had to get his bike and himself under cover.  He tested his leg.  He’d been bloody lucky.  He was going to be bruised and sore in the morning, but Peterson was pretty sure he hadn’t broken anything.

How had the bastard known he’d have it with him?  More to the point, what the hell was he going to do with it, and was it going to come back to bite Peterson in the arse?

 

* * *

 

Graham Hawker was the last person Evan Graves wanted to see.  He wished he could say Hawker was also the last person he expected to see, but after Graves’s failure to get Susan Brayden out of the custody suite shortly after 10am, he had known it wouldn’t be long before Hawker was on his doorstep.

“Evan.”

“Graham.”

“Mr Hawker to you today.”

“My apologies, Mr Hawker.  Won’t you come in?”  Graves felt the bile rise in his throat.  Being civil to this man always left Graves with a foul taste in his mouth and a sour stomach, but needs must.  Graham – Mr Hawker, Graves mentally corrected himself – paid well, even for relatively simple services such as escorting one of his ‘staff’ from police custody.  Graves had lived rather well for a number of years thanks to _Mr_ Hawker’s business interests.  He followed Hawker through to the front room.

“May I offer you drink, Mr Hawker?”

“No.  Thank you.”

“Something to eat, perhaps.”

“No.  Thank you.”

“Won’t you have a seat?”

“No.”

“No?”  That was the wrong answer.  Hawker always took a seat, specifically, the antique wing-backed chair.  He would perch on the very edge of the seat, in his ubiquitous grey suit, like an overstuffed pigeon on a window ledge. Graves blinked.  Why hadn’t Hawker taken his gloves off yet?

“Mr Graves.”  Hawker stood in the middle of the floor.  “Can you tell me what happened today?”

“I–”

“Were my instructions not clear enough?  Remove her from the station before 10.30am.”  Hawker charged on without giving Graves a chance to respond.  “What part of that was so difficult for you to comprehend?”

“There was an accident on the–”

“I don’t pay you to make excuses.  I pay you to carry out my directives.  Susan Brayden was one of my best earners and now I’m going to have to remove her from the business because she saw me at work.”  Graham stepped into Graves’s space, forcing him to step backwards.  “Because you couldn’t manage to complete one simple task in time.”

Graves tried to bluff.  “Remove…?  Aren’t you being a bit paranoid?  She–”  Graham’s fingers dug into his throat, silencing him.

“She might be a bit silly at times, but she’s a smart girl; she’ll eventually put two and two together and come up with blackmail… or worse.  I haven’t got to where I am by allowing mistakes to go uncorrected.”

Graham released him, shoving him back against the wall, and Graves lashed out.  His wayward kick connected with Graham’s hip, sending the man sprawling.  Graves ran for the door, pitching face first onto the floor as something ripped through his thigh.  The pain took both breath and words from him.  He tried to push himself to his knees, crumpling as a solid weight slammed onto his shoulders.  His head hit the doorframe with a sickening crack.

 

* * *

  

Lewis had stayed with James until James had fallen into a deep sleep.  Without knowing what had happened to James, how he had ended up in the care of his priest, Lewis had no way to know what he’d been through physically.  Lewis hadn’t seen James sleeping this soundly in a very long time.

“What happened to you, lad?” Lewis had whispered to James.  “What did you see?  Is that why you can’t remember?”

The nurses had been true to Innocent’s word, tapping him on the shoulder at midnight.  He didn’t make a fuss; he knew how many rules had been bent to let him stay at all.

Innocent had sent him a text telling him to call for an area car when he was ready to leave.  Lewis called for a taxi.  An area car meant being driven by a police officer, and Lewis didn’t want to have to talk about James to anyone, least of all someone who knew both of them; not yet.  A taxi was safer.  A stranger behind the wheel was less likely to ask questions Lewis couldn’t answer.

His flat was deathly still and silent.  Lewis put the kettle on before peeling off his jacket, which he draped over the back of the kitchen chair.  The pocket rustled.  Lewis pulled out the photocopied page he’d put there what now felt like days ago.  The Magistrate Edwin Hattaway.  Manchester 1855.  He really should have left it in the bin, but the image was too intriguing; he could still throw it out, he told himself.  He put it in a drawer.

In theory, knowing James was safe should have helped him relax.  The loss of another young officer would, Lewis felt sure, make that next to impossible.

 

**********

 

Lewis woke with a gasp and checked the time.  He’d been in bed barely half an hour.  He’d been dreaming about the head and shoulders sketch, and images of James in a frock coat, bowtie, and top hat, striding through the streets of Victorian Manchester, were vivid in his mind.  In the dream, James had recognised him and called out his name.  That’s when Lewis had seen it.

Now restless and unsettled, he got up and wandered through to the kitchen.  Monty trotted out beside him, ever hopeful of an extra early breakfast.  Lewis poured a few biscuits in the cat’s bowl, enough to cover the bottom and stall his meowing protests.  When he closed his eyes, Lewis could see James’s face in clear detail.  He took a glass from the cupboard and put it back again.  It wasn’t a drink he needed.

It was one tiny detail, probably just his imagination embellishing the dream, but he had to check.  He retrieved the article, found a magnifying glass in another drawer, and examined the page under the kitchen light.  It wasn’t in his mind.  There was a scar on the left hand side of the chin – exactly the same as James’s scar.

That was bloody eerie.

 

* * *

 

Peterson had struggled to get the bike up off the road, its solid weight dragging on his shoulders.  His legs had threatened to buckle under him.  Once it was upright, he’d been able to balance himself and use the bike as a crutch, limping up the short driveway and into the garage.  He’d never been more grateful for the remote controlled door.  He stood the bike in the middle of the garage floor, in the spot where his car had stood that morning.  Picking that up was another item for the to-do list; however, that would have to wait.  He had bigger issues to worry about now.

He must have taken more of a battering than he’d thought.  In addition to his hip, it appeared he’d struck his elbow, and his shoulders were starting to ache too.  There was no way on God’s earth he was going into work tomorrow; though, given the circumstances, missing a day or three might not be the worst thing he could do for himself.

He limped towards the front steps – one day he was going to have a doorway put in between the kitchen and the garage – jumping in fright when a car backfired in an adjacent street.  He should try to take a bath or a hot shower at the very least – wasn’t that what you did for bruising, or was it icepacks?  He couldn’t remember, and didn’t really give a shit.  There were fourteen stairs between him and the bathroom and his bedroom.  Might as well have been forty.

“Fuck it,” he grunted.

Peterson stretched out on the couch, trying not to hiss in pain.  Christ, he hurt.

 


	9. 14 January – Tuesday - Morning

 

Lewis groped for the back of the chair, his eyes fixed on Dr Kennedy.  Hands at his elbows guided him into the seat.

“You’re wrong,” Lewis whispered.  “Last night you said he was fine.”

Dr Kennedy crouched beside the chair.  “I know.  I’m sorry.  There was no outward sign of any head injury; the CT scan was purely meant to be a precaution.”

“Then what’s happened?  Why’s he…?”

“The scan revealed a subarachnoid haemorrhage.  Mr Hathaway was rushed into surgery immediately.”

Lewis stared in disbelief.  “Subarach– That’s a bleed on the brain.”

“Head trauma from a car accident can–”

“He didn’t have a bloody car accident!”  Lewis found himself on his feet, looming over the doctor and shouting.  “You just said yourself there was no sign of head trauma.”

“Sometimes these things–”

“Excuse me, Dr Kennedy?”  A figure in theatre greens stood in the doorway.  He looked at Lewis.

“Mr Lewis,” Kennedy gestured towards the new arrival, “–this is Mr Abrahams, our senior neurosurgeon.”  He addressed Abrahams.  “Mr Lewis is Mr Hathaway’s partner.”

Abrahams removed the cap from his head.  “Mr Lewis, we did everything we could, but I’m afraid the damage was too extensive.”

Lewis swallowed hard.  “What are you saying?”

“Mr Hathaway passed away in the operating theatre twenty minutes ago.”

“No!”  Lewis woke abruptly, the cry of anguish catching in his throat.  He sucked in one sharp, rapid breath after the other.  Monty, who had shot off the bed when Lewis shouted, leapt back up on top of the duvet, and crept slowly towards Lewis with a series of concerned meows.

“I’m all right, daft boy.”  Lewis scratched under Monty’s outstretched chin.  “Bloody nightmares, that’s all.”

It was the third nightmare since he’d first tried to get back to sleep.  After the mystery of the image of the scar, he hadn’t expected to get back to sleep at all; it had been close to two when he’d last checked the time.  The first nightmare woke him just after three.  In it, James was dead in the passenger seat of his car, and it was Murray who’d gone missing.  The second struck at half-past five, with James’s lifeless body being found in the woods by one of the dogs.

Lewis’s breathing settled, and his heart decided to stay in his chest as its rough gallop slowed.  He scrubbed at his face, jumping when his alarm went off.  Seven.  _Not much point trying to sleep now._   He picked up the phone from his bedside table and silenced the ringing.  No messages.  No missed calls.  Lewis sagged with relief.

It was probably too early to ring the hospital.  ‘Not until after seven,’ had been the last estimate he’d been given on James getting the scan, which Lewis interpreted as closer to eight.  Being impatient and harrying the staff wasn’t going to speed that process up.  He was annoyed with himself for not insisting they call him, but he’d been so relieved to know James was in safe hands, the details had slipped from his mind.

His stomach growled with a disturbing loudness and roused Monty, who had curled up in the gap between Lewis’s knees.  It dawned on Lewis that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast the previous day.  He and James had planned to go to lunch after interviewing Caulfield, but events had decided otherwise.  A plaintive yowl and two paws firmly planted against his stomach warned Lewis he wasn’t the only one who was hungry.

“Bloody bottomless pit, you are.”  He stroked the cat’s head, pushing him away as the paws and claws became more persistent.  “Oi, you’ve got a perfectly good scratching post.  Go and use that.”  Lewis yawned loudly and made himself get up.

The hot water beating down on his head was blissful.  On the other side of the bathroom door, Monty was making his displeasure at being kept waiting known.  Lewis stayed under the water far longer than normal, the dull needles gradually working out the tension from his mind and shoulders.

He made coffee and toast.  It was the most basic of breakfasts, but it wasn’t a patch on James’s: he’d put too much coffee in the cafetière, and managed to burn the toast – twice.  Lewis nearly binned the lot.  However, he could hear James’s voice scolding him for not taking care of himself, and ate for the sake of eating.

At 8:01am, he rang the hospital.  By 8:05am, he’d learnt James had slept soundly the entire night.  In an odd way, it made up for Lewis’s own poor night.

“Any chance I can have a word with him, please?”  Hearing James’s voice, Lewis was certain, would dispel the last lingering chill of his nightmares.

“I’m sorry, Mr Lewis.  He went off for his CT scan about ten minutes ago.  He should be back within the hour, though, providing they don’t have any holdups.  You could try again then.”

“Don’t suppose you’ve any idea when he’ll get out?”

“I’ll make a note for someone to call you as soon as we know.  If his scan’s clear, he’ll most likely be discharged at some point this afternoon.”

“Okay.  Thanks.”

Lewis made himself a mug of tea before calling Innocent.  He sat himself at the kitchen table, started to dial, and then cancelled the call.  He moved to the couch and sank into the middle seat.  It was ridiculous, but he felt closer to James here.

He held his mug on one knee and used his free hand to hold and dial the phone.

“Robbie, how are you this morning?”  Innocent’s tone said it all really, Lewis thought.  It wasn’t a polite enquiry; she really wanted to know.

“I’ve slept better.”

“And James.”

“Haven’t spoken to him yet.”  He filled her in on what he’d been told.

“You’re both off duty for today,” she stated.  Lewis took a breath to reply.  “No arguments, please, Robbie.  James needs time to recover from whatever happened to him, and I need you to ensure he doesn’t push or punish himself over yesterday’s events.”

“James’ll want to get his statement on record as soon as possible, ma’am.”

“I’ve thought of that, but I don’t want him in an interview room until he’s been thoroughly cleared by the doctor.  Father Anthony’s been contacted and asked to come in at three.  Hopefully, you’ll be able to view both interviews.”

“View?”

“James is your partner, Robbie; you know you can’t be directly involved with either interview.”  Lewis was well aware of the protocol.  It didn’t mean he had to like it.  “Helen – DI Laxton will conduct James’s interview, and I’ll interview Father Anthony.”

“Ma’am?”  Innocent was rarely involved directly with investigations; however, this was an exceptional circumstance.

“Laxton will be leading the investigation into Murray’s death, and I’ll be assisting where necessary.  I’ve spoken to the Chief Constable and she’s supportive.”

“What did Father Anthony tell you last night?”

“Nothing I can put on record until he repeats it today.”

“What about the Carl Brayden case, ma’am?”

“Grainger’s volunteered to oversee the investigation into Carl Brayden’s murder until you and James are back on board.  Gurdip is working on the CCTV you asked for.”

“Grainger?  I’m surprise Peterson didn’t leap up and claim it.  He was sniffing around the other day.”  Innocent huffed forcefully.  “Ma’am?”

“DI Peterson has called in sick.  Apparently, he had a spill on his motorbike in last night’s sleet and he’s injured his leg and whacked his head.  He said doctor’s ordered a few days’ rest.”

Lewis was quietly relieved.  With Grainger on the task, James was less likely to demand to get back to work today.

“And Caulfield and Susan Brayden, ma’am?”

“The search for Caulfield and his jeep has recommenced, but so far there’ve been no sightings.  SOCO are at his flat right now, and uniform’s doing a door to door through his building.  We’re unlikely to find him hiding in there, but perhaps one of his neighbours has overheard something.  As for Ms Brayden: nothing.  Laxton rang the housemate, who said she was away for a few days but had left a note asking Susan to leave.  So far, we haven’t been able to trace any phone to her, but if she had a pay-as-you-go, we may never find one.”

The yawn ambushed Lewis.  “Oh!  Excuse me.”

The ‘tut’ was faint, but it was there.  “May I suggest you have a lie down before you pick up James?  That last thing I want to hear today is that you’ve been in an accident because you fell asleep at the wheel.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  It wasn’t a bad idea at all.  A wee kip, then ring the hospital again.  Yes, that’s what he’d do.

 

* * *

 

PC Chris Daly approached the dark blue Toyota Corolla saloon.  It had been reported abandoned, and was parked across the footpath that bounded the small park in Cowley.  His partner had run a PNC check on the registration, and learnt it had been reported stolen from the Tesco Superstore car park somewhere between 9pm and 6am, while the owner was somewhere between supervising the chip and pin machines and operating her own register.

“Bloody joy-riders,” Daly muttered under his breath.  Two years in uniform and he was fed up to the back teeth with clearing up after idiots whose only goal in life was to screw things up for others.  CID.  That was what he wanted.  No uniform.  Solid, meaty cases.  Something to impress the ladies with.

“I arrested a couple of kids for shoplifting,” didn’t exactly bring the women running.

Daly slipped on the latex gloves he retrieved from the area car’s glove box.  Wouldn’t do to screw up his chances of getting into CID by making basic errors.  He tested the driver’s door.  Unlocked.  There was no sign of broken glass inside the car.  Either the owner had left it unlocked, which would screw with their insurance claim, or whoever took it knew what they were doing.  There was nothing of interest in the car, except for an odd smell he couldn’t put his finger on.  Someone needed a ‘Magic Tree’ or three.  He found the boot release and was rewarded with a satisfying clunk.

He walked once around the car to check for damage before stopping at the back.  He opened the boot and examined its contents.  It took him a moment to register what he was looking at.  His nan’s oft-repeated warning loomed echoed in his head as he threw up on the grass beside the car seconds later.

“Be careful what you wish for, Christopher, love.  It might not really be what you want.”

 

* * *

 

James stared at the ceiling of his hospital room.  He disliked hospitals, but this was better that being on _that_ table, inside _that_ machine.  He hated CT scans.  It wasn’t the noise – he’d been exposed to worse in his lifetime – and it wasn’t being inside a confined space, even when his head was strapped down to hold him still.  It was the uncertainty.

“It’s just a precaution, Mr Hathaway.”

You didn’t take precautions unless you believed – no matter how slightly – there was some risk.  The tiniest of percentages still left the possibility of finding something unwanted or unpleasant.  James had witnessed for himself what could happen to a body and soul when that one per cent chance became a reality.

James had beaten the odds on many occasions, more than he even liked to acknowledge to himself.  Fire, poison, knives, and guns.  He’d been on the receiving end of each of those and more.  Surely one day his ‘luck’ was going to change, and the one per cent would be his last.  What would that day be like?

“Cup of tea, Mr Hathaway?”  The volunteer stood in the doorway, as though entering the room would breach an unwritten (or perhaps it was written) directive.  She was someone’s daughter; she might be someone’s wife, sister, mother, aunt.  She lived, she would die, and, if she were blessed, she would be mourned.

_Christ, Hathaway, pull your head out of your existential arse._

“White with two sugars, please.”

She left two Hobnobs on a napkin beside the saucer and patted his arm maternally as she left.

“I’m sure someone’s missing you as well, dear,” she said kindly.

That was the truth of the matter, wasn’t it?  He’d heard Innocent warn Lewis he’d be kicked out at midnight, yet James had hoped Lewis would be at his bedside when he woke.  James grunted at his own foolish fancy.  James had lost time.  Lewis had thought he’d lost James.  If anyone needed comforting, it wasn’t James.

He pushed himself into a sitting position and took the cup and saucer onto his lap.  No point letting Hobnobs go to waste.

The cup stopped halfway to his mouth when the bedside phone rang.

 

* * *

 

Lewis had let himself into James’s with the spare key he picked up from James’s landlord.  Before leaving again, he checked the contents of the bags he’d packed.  There was a full change of clothes in a plastic bag for James to leave hospital in, while the gym bag contained pyjamas, underwear, James’s iPod – his shattered phone had been taken in as evidence – and two sets of casual clothes, including shoes.  Two of James’s suits hung in suit bags on hooks beside the front door.

He’d felt much better hearing James’s voice, strong and clear.

“How was the CT scan?”

“How are they ever?”

“Dunno.  I’ve never had one.”

If James had been surprised, it hadn’t appeared in his voice.  “At the very least, mildly uncomfortable, noisy, and more than a tad unpleasant if you don’t like confined spaces.”

“Any news?”

“Results in by eleven, I’ve been told.”

“I’ll be there at five past, then.”

“Could you do me a favour?”

“Anything.”

Lewis hadn’t been surprised when James had asked him to bring in some clothes.  It was the conversation after which had left him wondering if he’d woken into a slightly surreal dream.

“In the left-hand side of my wardrobe are two suit bags.  Can you–”

“You’re not working today; Innocent was clear on that.”

“I expect she was,” James had murmured dryly.  “However, as you so correctly pointed out quite recently, having the appropriate clothing at your place will save me some time on those mornings where I haven’t made it to my own bed the night before.”

“How will I know which shirts, ties, and socks to pack?”

James had made an exasperated huff.  “They’re already packed in with the suits.”  Lewis’s bemused silence must have spoken volumes, for James continued, “It makes it easier to get dressed when I’m still half-asleep at 3am.”

“Knew you’d have a system.”

“It’s not a system; it’s called planning ahead.”

“Call it what you like, James, it’s still far more bloody organised than a lot of people.”

James had huffed again.  “You might as well grab the wet pack from the bathroom vanity.  It should have everything I need for overnight.”

Clothes _and_ toiletries.  Lewis paused as he went to lift the suit bags.  He might have to consider making a decision on a sofa bed or new flat sooner than he’d thought.

 

* * *

 

While the SOCOs focused on the interior of the car and the surrounding grassed area and footpath, Laura examined the body in the boot from several angles, taking great care to avoid a sand covered mass near the left rear tyre.  PC Daly stood vigilant but wary at the side of the car.  Laura drew nearer.

“First violent death, constable?”  Her words were kind.

“No, ma’am, not really.”  He looked ashamed.

“Then this is the first time you’ve found a body.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s always a shock when you make the discovery, no matter how long you’ve been in the force.  If it’s any consolation, you’re doing far better than a certain DCI I used to know.”

Daly seemed slightly relieved.  “Thank you, ma’am.  It was a call to an abandoned car.  I never expected…”  Daly swallowed hard as he paled again.

“You had no reason to.”  She gave him a gentle smile and returned to the man in the car.

Whoever had done this was either quite strong or there’d been more than one person involved.  The boot of the saloon was quite generous, though it hadn’t been designed to take the beaten and contorted body of a man who, Laura guessed, would have been able to loom over James Hathaway – a rare feat indeed given James’s natural talent in that area.  Laura examined the hand she could reach; the other was jammed awkwardly under the man’s side.  Obtaining prints would be easy enough, which would be extremely useful, as a visual identification wasn’t going to be easy.  The head had been severely beaten, the skull misshapen, and the jaw and cheekbones no doubt shattered.  This was fury and rage, and it was personal.

The victim’s dark suit and the black carpet lining the interior of the boot were disguising what blood might be there.  Determining how much was in the boot could help Laura pinpoint how soon after death he’d been moved, or whether or not he’d died of his injuries in the boot.  The imperative now was to try to find out where he was initially attacked.  If the police were lucky, the killer would have left evidence of himself behind.

Laura beckoned for the photographer and the SOCO who was hovering beside PC Daly.  There was little else Laura could do here.  She wouldn’t be able to gauge the full extent of the injuries until he was on her table.

“Dr Hobson?  Ma’am?”

She turned to see Hooper hovering at the edge of the crime scene tape.  _They’ve sent a DC to a murder by himself?_   She waved him over.  He didn’t budge.

“Begging your pardon, ma’am.  I’m just to hold the fort until DI Grainger arrives.”

Laura nodded her understanding.  Resources were already stretched tight, and the cold-blooded killing of Murray had shocked everyone.  She’d heard Grainger was overseeing the investigation of Carl Brayden’s murder until Robbie and James were both back.  No doubt, there was going to be a lot of doubling and tripling up over the coming days.  Everyone wanted to do his or her part to find Murray’s killer, but crime didn’t stop because a police officer had been murdered.

Laura had been relieved when Jean had updated her on James’s condition, and thankful Robbie would be there for him.  They were an odd pair on the surface, but perfectly matched, being closer and more in tune with each other than many of the married or long-term couples Laura knew.  That included both heterosexual and same-sex couples.  Had either James or Robbie been a woman, Laura had no doubt their relationship would have become permanent long before now. 

Perhaps, in their own peculiar way, it had, she mused.

She’d been pleased and puzzled when Robbie had first taken her hand that day along the towpath nearly a year earlier, having almost given up on the idea they’d be anything more than friends.  As it turned out, however, she’d been right to trust that feeling.  She had raised her misgivings first, carefully suggesting they perhaps weren’t as well suited as they’d both hoped.  Robbie, bless him, had tried to cover his obvious relief at not having to try to explain how he felt.  Though an articulate man, he could become endearingly tongue-tied at times.

For his part, James had never seriously looked at anyone.  Yes, there’d been that ‘dalliance’ with Fiona McKendrick, but that was the only relationship of which Laura was aware.

It had been no surprise to anyone, except perhaps Robbie and James themselves, when they had fallen back into the pattern of spending most of their free time together.  Laura felt a balance had been restored.

She gave herself a shake.  Standing by the body of a murdered man was not the place to be contemplating the relationship status of two of your friends.  She pulled her attention back to the SOCO’s examination.

 

* * *

 

Lewis made it to the hospital by ten to eleven, and met Dr Kennedy outside the door to James’s room.

“Inspector Lewis, I was just about to go over James’s scan results with him.  If you’d like to wait–”

“I’d like him to hear the results, please.”  James’s voice rang clearly.

Dr Kennedy drew his lips into a thin line and gestured for Lewis to enter the room.

James was sitting up, with the covers laid smoothly over his legs.  Lewis put the plastic bag of clothes on the end of the bed near his feet.  James’s hair, which he’d been allowing to grow during the winter months, stuck up in random tufts, giving James the air of a ruffled bird.

Dr Kennedy, on the other hand, was simply annoyed and ruffled.  “I do need to state that I’m not entirely happy with this situation.  We usually prefer to deliver results to the patient and next of kin only, in the first instance.”

“The privilege of being allowed to stay outside of visiting hours is usually only extended to next of kin too, isn’t it?” Lewis countered.

“Under certain circumstances, yes.”  The doctor shifted awkwardly.

“Well, no-one seemed to mind letting me stay past visiting hours last night, and James has stated he wants me to hear his results.  I hope hospital policy is to respect the wishes of your patients.”

Kennedy looked resigned.  “It is.”  He mounted the films on the light box.  “We’ve found nothing.  Not bone damage, no bleeding, no swelling, absolutely no sign of any head trauma at all.”

“That’s good, then,” Lewis said, smiling at James who lay back against the pillows with an air of relief.

“Yes and no.”  James mirrored Lewis’s scowl.  Kennedy spoke to James.  “While there’s no obvious injury, we also have no physical cause for your memory loss.  As a precaution, you’re not to drive for at least the next two to three days, preferably for up to a week if you’re able.  Any headaches, vision disturbances, ringing or other sounds in your ears, dizziness – pretty much anything out of the ordinary – you’re to come straight in to be examined.”  James gave a single nod.  The doctor seemed satisfied with that; Lewis wasn’t.  “Your discharge papers will be at the nurses’ station.  Inspector Lewis, am I correct in presuming James will be released into your care?  That was the impression I received from CS Innocent last night.”

Lewis fixed James with a steady gaze.  “I’ll be keeping an eye on him.”

“Very good.  James, in that case, you’re free to leave as soon as you’re ready.”

Lewis waited until Kennedy was clear of the room and then sat on the edge of the bed.  “I know that look you gave Dr Kennedy.  You might be able to fob him off with a simple nod, but I know you better.”

“Yes, sir,” James replied, looking unsurprised at being caught out.

“I will be keeping an eye out.  Anything slightly off and you’ll tell me.  Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lewis reached for the bag at the end of the bed.  “Clothes as requested.  Give us a shout if you need a hand with anything.”

James made a moue.  “It’s my head they’re worried about.  The rest of me is fine.”

“Well, if you keel over putting your shoes on, don’t say I didn’t offer to help.”

“Point taken.”  Lewis rose to leave and James laid a hand on his arm.  “Wait.”  From under the covers, he withdrew a copy of that morning’s _Oxford Mail_.  Murray and Caulfield’s faces stared out from the cover.  “It came with breakfast.  I don’t think it was supposed to.”

“You’ve read it?”

“Yes.”

“Now I’m glad Innocent let me tell you last night.”  Lewis took the paper off him.  “But you should know better; by your own admission, you can’t remember anything.  You’re not to read any more papers, listen to the radio, or sit down at a computer until after you’ve made your statement.  You can’t let what you see or hear colour what you remember.”

“I don’t remember a bloody thing.  I’ve tried.  It’s not that this has never happened to me before, it’s…”  James sighed.

“You’ve had memory loss before?  After something like… due to trauma?”

James pulled the bag onto his lap and looked inside.  “Once or twice,” James murmured his full attention seemingly on counting the stitches in the pair of jeans he’d pulled out.

“Once or twice?”

“Um, a badly swung oar can give you a nasty concussion.  I’ve forgotten entire regattas.”

“Ouch.”

“That’s one word for it.”

 

* * *

 

Though it was nearly midday, the fusty front room was dark, save for the glow off the telly.  Heavy curtains blocked out the windows, and Drew had already threatened to hit Susan if she so much as went near them again.  Susan hated the dark.

“Screw this,” she muttered, and jumped up off the sagging couch.  Drew was on her in a second, wrapping his hand around her upper arm, and dragging her away from the window.

“It’s for your own bloody safety, you stupid bint.”

“Don’t you bloody ‘bint’ me, you–” 

Drew backhanded her across the face once, and she sat down in confused silence.  He’d never hit her before.  Sure, he’d been a bit rough, but she was fine with that as long as it was confined to bed.

Len, on the other hand, had literally dragged her in here the afternoon before and locked her in the front room.  She could still feel where his fingers had dug into her arms, and she had a large, painful bruise where he’d shoved her against the doorframe when he’d pushed her into the house.

“Don’t even think of trying to get out.  You’ll be safe here until Caulfield arrives,” he’d growled.

“Safe?  I wouldn’t need to be bloody safe if you’d–”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, will you shut the fuck up?  What’s done’s done.”

He’d reared up over her.  Until today, Susan had never considered Len to be a threat.  Now he quietly terrified her.  She’d sat down on the edge of the couch.  A telly sat on a small table in one corner and a single bar heater on the floor beside it.  On top of a side table sat bottles of water and bags of crisps.

“Whose house is this?” she’d asked.

“No questions.  Be thankful I’m not shutting you in under the stairs.  You’ve got power for the heater and the telly – keep the volume down – but God help you if you turn on any lights or open the curtains; I will find out.”

When he’d left – she’d listened for the purr of his car fading – she’d turned on the telly and curled up on the couch.  That’s where Drew had found her when he arrived shortly after midnight.

Susan shifted restlessly on the couch, raising a small billow of dust and God knows what else.  “You never said why you took so long to get here?”

“I got here, okay.  That’s all you should be concerned about.”

“I don’t like being here.  When’s Graham due back?  You said he’d be here.”

“How the hell should I know?”

“How long do we have to stay here?”

“I don’t know.  That’s up to Graham.”

“How did Len know where we were yesterday?”

“I don’t know.  You should have asked him.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Said I didn’t need to know.”

“So why are you asking me?”

“Do you know anything?”

“I know you’d better shut up.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll tell Graham you can’t keep your bloody mouth shut.”

“You can be a right bastard, you know.”  Drew grunted and turned his attention back to his phone.  The heater ticked and the telly murmured.  “What did you do with the Jeep?”

“None of your business.”

“How did you get here?”

“I flew – what do you think?  Will you shut it?”

“Why are we just waiting here?  We should be trying to get as far away as possible.”

“The police are going to be looking for both of us, and not just Thames Valley.  Len killed two coppers who were following us, or did you forget that little detail?”

“One.”

“What?”

“It was on the news late last night before you got here.  One killed, one got away.  Didn’t you hear anything on the radio?”

“Shit.  Does Len know?”

“Oh, bugger Len!”

“Does.  Len.  Know?”

“I don’t know.  He was gone long before I put the telly on.  Locked me in and pissed off.  I don’t really give a shit about Len right now.  We’d be bloody home free, but now–”

“You stupid cow.  You have no idea how this works, do you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped.

“Oh, you’ll find out.”

“When?”

“When Graham decides.  Now will you shut up?”

Susan shivered at the way he’d said, “When Graham decides.”  She watched Drew out of the corner of her eye.  When he hadn’t been reading, he’d been receiving and sending texts on the phone Len had given him – she’d heard it vibrate.  Something was going on, and she wasn’t sure she liked it one bit.

 


	10. 14 January – Tuesday – Afternoon/Evening

 

“You should have turned left back there to get to my flat, sir.”

“I’m well aware of that; we’re going to mine.”

“I realise my release documents said I’d be in your care, but we both know the hospital’s not going to check up.  I’ll be fine at my place, really.”

“I’m not worried about the hospital, or about your ability to watch out for yourself.  Thing is, Innocent expects me to keep an eye on you for a day or so, at least, and I’ll feel a hell of a lot better if you’re close by.  I could always sleep on your couch if you’d rather be in your own bed, though.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never slept on my couch.  I did it once; never again.”

“Your place or mine?”  Lewis was prepared to turn around if James was insistent.  He wouldn’t like it, but he’d do it.  As much as he was concerned for James, he would never force him to do something he didn’t want to.

A brief smile flitted across James’s face.  “Yours.”

James barely said two words after that.  Lewis hadn’t expected him to be chatty, but he also didn’t want to see James withdraw into himself.  Overthinking was as natural to James as breathing, and if left to himself James could quickly become lost in spirals of second-guessing and self-doubt.  Lewis nearly released a heartfelt sigh of relief when James made eye contact before getting out of the car.

“Would it be all right if I had a shower?  I didn’t get one in the hospital.”

“Course it is.  I’ve got your stuff in the boot, like you asked.”

James took the suit bags, despite Lewis’s protests.  “Got them into the car by meself; perfectly capable of getting them out again,” he chided James gently.

“Shouldn’t take any risks, sir,” James purred

He was pleased when James headed straight to the bedroom and hung the suits in the wardrobe.  It felt right for James to be at that level of comfort in Lewis’s home.

Lewis handed the gym bag to James and pointed at the chest of drawers.  “Top drawer’s empty, and you know where the towels are.”  He left James to get himself sorted.

Lewis opened the fridge.  They could have the remaining minestrone, and if James was very hungry Lewis decided he could make toasted cheese sandwiches to go with it.  With lunch sorted, he put the kettle on and readied two mugs and the teapot.

His mobile rang in his jeans pocket.

“Lewis.”

_“Hi, Robbie, Helen Laxton.”_

Lewis could think of several reasons why DI Laxton would be calling him, not all of them welcome.  “Helen.  Has there been a break in the case?”

_“Unfortunately not, though I thought you might want an update.  Is James out of hospital yet?”_

“Just got him home.  He’s fine; I’ll bring him in this afternoon to give his statement.”

_“Are you sure he’s up to it?”_

“I believe so.”

_“Good.  Right.  Current state of play: Caulfield’s flat is clean.  Too clean.  No evidence of firearms, no drugs, no indication anyone has been back to the house in the past twenty-four hours.  He has a lot of protein supplements and the second bedroom’s a home gym.”_ That explained his solid build. _“We didn’t find any personal documents or papers.  No bills, no bank statements.  If he gets everything sent electronically, then he must access it through a smartphone, as there’s no computer here and no sign of an internet connection.  It’s almost as though he’d cleared everything out, if it was ever there to begin with.”_

“That’s not impossible.  If he had even the slightest of idea of what was going on he had at least fifteen, sixteen hours to set something in motion once James called and asked him to come into the station.  That’s more than enough time to hide or dispose of things like paperwork.  You say there’re no drugs at all.”

_“Nothing.  We brought in a drug-detecting dog who literally curled up on the rug and went to sleep.  What time did you interview Caulfield?”_

“He came in just before noon.  James said Caulfield had told him he could only manage to come in during his lunch break, but he arrived nearly three-quarters of an hour early.  He must have made a beeline for Susan’s almost immediately after his interview.”

_“Shit.  It’s looking more and more as though he knew exactly what was going down.  But how in the hell could he have known?”_

“There’s no evidence he did.  From what happened yesterday, we can’t be entirely sure yet who fired the gun – Caulfield or the second driver.  Murray said, ‘that’s,’ just before the shooting.  ‘That’s’ what?  That’s a gun?  You’d say ‘they’ve got a gun,’ ‘he’s got a gun,’ ‘she’s got a gun.’  Was he going to name someone?  ‘That’s so and so?’”

_“So you think perhaps someone else knew James and Murray were following Caulfield, someone who was prepared to kill?  But again: how?”_

Lewis mentally steeled himself before voicing what he didn’t want to believe.  “There could be someone inside the station connected to all of this.”

_“You’re suggesting a corrupt officer?  Robbie.”_ The warning in her voice was unnecessary.  There were unwritten codes and beliefs in the police force, and calling into question a fellow officer without damning evidence was still one of the greatest taboos.

“I know.  I don’t want to believe it either, and while it could just as easily be a civilian member of staff or a nutcase with a police scanner… have you heard about the missing emails?”

There was a soft groan.  _“Jean told me this morning.  Jesus, Robbie, I hope you’re wrong.”_

“So do I.  Is there any progress on tracing phones to either of the Braydens?  What about Caulfield’s phone records?  His number’s on file.  Those call records could give us what we need.”

_“We’re on it._ ”

 

**********

 

James came through to the kitchen.  His damp hair stuck up in all directions, and his skin was pink from where he must have scrubbed quite hard.  He looked brighter, though.

He leant one hip lazily against the worktop.  “I couldn’t help hearing you talking.  Is there an update on… yesterday?”  Lewis felt James scrutinise him. 

“Tea’s made.  Let’s eat first, and I’ll bring you up to date afterwards.”

James didn’t press any further.

 

**********

 

Lewis rested his head against the wall at the side of the two-way glass.  It was strange seeing James on the other side of the table, dressed in a hoodie and jeans.  He could be any suspect on any given day, but he wasn’t.  He was a police officer who’d been shot at, who’d been present when a colleague was killed, and he couldn’t remember a bloody thing.

“Once again, in your own words, please, Mr Hathaway.”  Laxton looked uncomfortable with the whole process, but what they did wasn’t really meant to be comfortable.

James folded his hands together in front of him in the centre of the table. 

“At Inspector Lewis’s suggestion, I arranged for Acting Detective Constable Paul Murray to accompany me to Blackbird Leys for the purpose of bringing Susan Brayden back into the station for further questioning in relation to the murder of her brother, Carl Brayden.  I can’t remember what time we left the station, though I’m confident our departure would have been picked up by the station car park’s CCTV.  The next thing I remember is being in Father Anthony’s car, and he was taking me to A&E.”

After that, no matter how the questions were phrased, no matter what angle Laxton tried, James could not recall anything further.

“Mr Hathaway, there’s a police recording of a lengthy exchange between yourself and Acting DC Murray, and Inspector Robert Lewis.  Do you remember any of that?”

Lewis missed James’s answer but not the frustrated shake of his head, as Innocent came into the viewing room.  “Professional Standards have agreed to accept our findings into any culpability regarding Murray’s death, on the proviso you aren’t involved in any of James’s interviews, and that they have full access to the case files at any time.”

It rankled Lewis, but he understood the politics involved and simply nodded.

“James did nothing wrong, Robbie, nor did you; you and I both know that.  I think it’s safe to say you’ll be spared any disciplinary action.”

James won’t spare himself, though, Lewis thought.

 

**********

 

With the Chief Constable’s approval, James joined Lewis in the viewing room to watch Father Anthony’s interview.

As Innocent had explained, “We don’t believe Father Anthony had any involvement with the shooting.”  James’s eyes had bulged at the unspoken suggestion it had even been a point of concern.  “And there’s a chance his statement might jog Sergeant Hathaway’s memory of earlier events.  We don’t have anything to lose by giving it a shot.”

Seated where James had been earlier, the priest reminded Lewis of Kenneth More in the old telly series _Father Brown_ , but a bit thinner.

Father Anthony began by loudly clearing his throat.  “I received a call from Trevor Halley; he’s an old friend who lives in Horton-cum-Studley.  It was around six in the evening.  He told me he had been walking in York’s Wood around four o’clock – he likes to take the dogs for a run – and Juno, Juno’s an English Setter, took off into the woods proper.  He whistled for the dog, who came back – she’s very well trained – and was quite startled when a disoriented young man, who turned out to be James, James Hathaway, stumbled out behind the dog.”

“Father Anthony,” Innocent interrupted softly.  “When I spoke to you last night, you never mentioned the involvement of another person.”

“You never asked about another person.”

“You said James called you.”

Father Anthony smiled gently.  “I believe all I said was I received a call at 6pm to pick up James, so I went.”

Innocent paused.  Lewis unconsciously leant forward slightly trying to hear the unspoken.  Unless Innocent had made notes while talking to him, she had nothing with which to contradict Father Anthony. 

“My apologies, Father.  My subconscious must have filled in the blanks.  Please continue.”

Father Anthony sipped from the cup of water in his hand.  “I was at a meeting in Slough when I received the call, so by the time I got to Trevor’s and then convinced James to go to the hospital, it was close to 8.30 before we arrived at A&E.  You know what happened after that.”

Lewis’s puzzlement matched the frown on Innocent’s face.

“Father Anthony, if Mr Halley came across James at four, why didn’t he call you or the police sooner?  Didn’t he notice an increase in police activity in the area?”

The slim man nodded slowly.  “I called him after I got home last night and asked him that.  He said he noticed it but thought it was some sort of exercise, counter-terrorism or something.  I suppose if James had been in uniform, it might have made a difference.”  Father Anthony sighed.  “With regard to James, Trevor told me he could see the young man was in need of some assistance, but he – James – was also uncertain and fearful.  It took Trevor some time to convince James to go with him.  Trevor offered to take him to A&E, but James became more agitated, so instead he encouraged James to walk back with him to his house where James could call someone.”

“Mr Halley doesn’t have a mobile phone?”

“Oh, no.”  Father Anthony chuckled.  “Nor radio or television; he’s a bit of a Luddite.  When they arrived at Trevor’s home, Trevor was quite astonished to be asked to call me.  James said he couldn’t remember the number, but that wasn’t a problem for Trevor.”

“Did Mr Halley know James at all?”

Father Anthony shook his head.  “I doubt Trevor and James had ever crossed paths before – Trevor certainly didn’t recognise him – and James couldn’t have known Trevor would know me.  I suppose we all have someone we reach out to in time of need.”

Beside him, Lewis felt James’s body droop while his own mind whirled.  Lewis had come to believe he’d most likely be the one James would call for in a crisis, yet when it had happened, James had asked a stranger to contact his priest instead.  Lewis felt as though he’d been kicked in the stomach.  He risked looking at James, who was staring at him with undisguised disbelief and shock.  What Lewis couldn’t tell was whether it was as a result of what they’d heard, and James couldn’t believe it either, or because it was most likely true, and now Lewis knew.

Whichever way it went, what didn’t change was Lewis wasn’t the first person James had thought of.

“Sir,” James stammered.  “I… I don’t know what to say.”

The poor lad looked so troubled; Lewis knew he couldn’t hold it against him.  The lad had been shot at, and God knows what else had happened in the woods.  A priest meant sanctuary.  Lewis couldn’t bear a grudge against someone seeking that.

“You don’t have to say anything, James.”  Lewis looked through the glass at Father Anthony.  “In your shoes, I might have found meself asking for Val.”

 

* * *

 

Innocent joined Lewis and Hathaway in the viewing room.

“Anything, James?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.  I don’t remember any of that.”

“You must have been quite fortunate to get that distance through the woods without injuring yourself.”

“Yes.  I suppose I was.”

“We’ll have a wait to see if forensics can get anything off your clothes which might add some detail to the picture.”

“My clothes?”

“The suit you were wearing when you were taken to the hospital.”  Innocent raised an eyebrow.  “Lewis, you are certain they cleared James of any head injury?”

“Yes, ma’am.”  Lewis was watching James, and Innocent briefly wondered if he had answered her question or given her an automatic response.

She looked from James to Lewis.  Something was very clearly not right between them, and she had a fair idea what it was.  James hadn’t called for his Governor.  Perhaps the Dynamic Duo weren’t that inseparable after all.  That wasn’t a pleasant thought.

“Now that’s cleared up, I need both of you in the incident room so Laxton can bring us all up to date at the same time, and there’s one more thing I’d like to try to jog James’s memory.”

They followed her silently.  The lack of banter or any discussion was disturbing.

The incident room was noisy.  Phone calls were being made, discussions held, and in one corner, the printer whirred and clunked away.

Laxton spun around.

“Oh, good, you’re here.”  She looked to Innocent.  “Any luck?”

“Not yet.  What do you have?”

“Nothing further on Caulfield or Brayden.  Sorry.  Grainger dropped by and said they’d cleared the owner of the Toyota Corolla from this morning.”

“What Corolla?” James asked.

“Oh, right, sorry, you won’t know about that; I didn’t have all the details when I called earlier.  A body was found concertinaed into the boot of a Corolla abandoned in Cowley.  It’s a street away from Caulfield’s flat, so I asked Grainger to keep me in the loop, just in case there was a connection.  The owner of the car’s a young lass of twenty.  She works night shift at the Tesco Super Store, which is where the car was stolen from, and started work at ten.  According to Laura Hobson, the victim was most likely killed somewhere 11pm and 1 am.  The PM results aren’t through yet, but he looked like he’d been battered to death.”

“Not normally the work of a young woman,” Lewis commented.

“No.”

Innocent motioned to James to sit down at a vacant desk.  “Helen, do you have it?”

Laxton handed over a thin file.  Innocent took it and sat beside James.

“James, this is the transcript of yours and Murray’s call to the station yesterday.  As you’ve given a statement, I’d now like to see if this will jog your memory.”

“Is that wise?”  Lewis leant on the desk.

“It needs to be done, Lewis.”

“It’s all right, sir.”

As James worked through the file, a frown appeared and deepened.  He flicked back and forth between the pages, finally spreading the pages out in front of him.

“This… I don’t remember any of it,” James murmured. 

Innocent leant in closely.  “It doesn’t ring any bells, James?”

“It’s procedural, it was low-risk, but, no, not even the faintest chime.”

 

* * *

 

There were two sharp raps at the door.

“Turn that off,” Caulfield ordered, jumping to his feet.  “That’ll be Graham.”

“About fucking time,” Susan muttered.

“Now, now, Susan.”  She jumped at Graham’s voice right behind her.  “Some things mustn’t be rushed.  In this business, timing is everything.”

Susan’s eyes followed Graham as he walked slowly around the couch.  He really was quite an unassuming man – normally – someone who would disappear in a crowd, but he was terrifying Susan.

“Susan, my dear, Mr Graves, your solicitor, let me down, and in doing that, he’s failed you.”

“Wha…what do you mean?”

“Mr Graves was supposed to get you out of the police station well before 10.30am.  He had his instructions and he was late – very late.  Unfortunately that’s put you in a bit of a pickle, because you saw things you were never meant to, and now I can’t afford to risk letting you go in case you start telling people what you saw.”

Susan was baffled.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I saw you at the station, but that was because…”  They talk about pennies dropping and lightbulb moments.  This was a deluge and a nuclear flash.  “Oh, God, you’re a copper.”

“I wish you hadn’t said that, Susan,” Graham said with a sigh.

Susan looked quickly around the room.  “Where’s Drew gone?”

“Mr Caulfield is… let’s just say he’s running a small errand for me.  I didn’t want him to be here while I took care of a little problem.”

“What problem?”  Susan tried to make for the door, but Graham caught her around the waist and threw her to the ground.

“You, my dear.”

 

* * *

 

With no further developments in the offing, Innocent shooed them out of the station a little before five.

After Father Anthony’s revelation, James hinted that perhaps it would be better if he went to his own flat after all.

“Don’t be daft.”  Lewis gave his shoulder a quick squeeze.  “It’s been an odd couple of days, but it’s water under the bridge.  All right?”

James gave him a warm, genuine smile.  “If you’re up for a stop at Sainsbury’s, I’ll cook tonight.”

“Are you suggesting I’ve nothing in?”

“I cooked breakfast on Monday morning, remember?  I know what’s in your fridge, and unless you went shopping after you left the hospital last night, you don’t have anything in.”

“Cheeky git.  Tell you what.  We’ll stop at Sainsbury’s to shop for breakfast, and order a takeaway when we get home.”

“I’d like to cook both meals.”

“You’re sure?”

“Dinner won’t be gourmet, but it’ll be fresh.”

“Will we need beer or wine?”

“Better get both.”

 

**********

 

They had bickered in the fruit and vegetable section of Sainsbury’s like an old married couple.  Then Lewis had received a lecture on how to pick the freshest meat.  They’d finished by debating the benefits of pasta sauce made from scratch and one premade in a jar.

Lewis had loved every minute.

In the end, James had made spaghetti Bolognese, begrudgingly using tinned tomatoes over fresh, as none of the fresh ones had passed his rigorous selection process.

Lewis ate far too much and, after clearing away and cleaning up, found he was most comfortable slumped down on the couch with his feet on the coffee table.

James soon joined him, and they sat shoulder to shoulder.  They’d left the telly off, instead choosing to have music in the background.  The soft strains of piano and violin wrapped around them.

James sipped the Bordeaux Lewis had chosen.  “I’m going in to work tomorrow.  I need to do something,” he insisted quietly.

“James, give yourself some time, man.”

“The doctor’s cleared me; you were there.  I’m fine.”

“You’re under instructions not to drive for a couple of days – that’s not exactly clearing you.  Take another day, at the very least.  Innocent can manage without us for that long.”

James looked at him sadly.  “I have to do what I can to find answers and see justice done.”

“I understand, James.  I want to see the bastard caught too, but–”

“Murray died, and I didn’t, and I can’t explain why,” James said quietly.  “Did you know he was getting married?”  Lewis nodded.  “His fiancée deserves answers.  His family deserve answers.  If I were them, I’d want to know everything possible was being done, wouldn’t you?”

“Aye,” Lewis said softly.  “I would, but–”

“I have to trust the contents of the transcript.  I asked for permission to follow Caulfield’s car rather than pull him over there and then.  That’s why I have to go in, why I have to be part of finding the answers.  I owe his family that much.”

It was more or less what Lewis had expected from James, but that didn’t make it any easier for Lewis to hear.  “James, you did everything by the book.  Technically, Susan wasn’t breaking any laws; nor was Caulfield.  You had back up on the way – two cars confirmed their ETA just after you reported turning off the bypass.  You took no undue risks.  You did nothing wrong.”

“If we’d left the station five minutes later, we might have missed them completely; five minutes earlier and–”

“James, stop it.”  Lewis spoke firmly but kindly.  “‘If’ is a bloody big word.”  He put a hand on James’s arm.  “This isn’t all on your shoulders, lad.  Yes, your gut told you there was more going on, but you have to remember, I trusted what you saw and felt, and I gave you permission to proceed.  I could have called you back.  I could have told you to pull him over there and then.  Do you think I don’t wish I’d made a different choice?”  Hindsight was a painful teacher.  He gave James a moment to take stock.  “Whether you go back on duty tomorrow or the day after, the investigation is underway.  You will be involved somehow, and you know Innocent won’t allow any stone to be left unturned.  We’ll get answers.  We’ll get the bastard.”

“I have to go back in.  I have to find out what happened.  I owe it to Murray.”

James was so earnest, his expression so fiercely determined, Lewis was concerned he was going to march out of the flat and go to the station there and then.  He also knew when the battle was lost.  “And you will.  In the morning.  Right now, you need to sleep.  Take my bed; you’ll be more comfortable.”

“I couldn’t, sir, not at the expense of your back.  The couch has served me well in the past, and I don’t think I’m the only one who needs a decent sleep.”

“Ah… well… maybe.  Right, the sooner we get you sorted, the sooner we both get to sleep.”

Lewis turned to get the bedding from the cupboard.  He got two paces from the couch before pivoting around.

“Look, um…”  _Say it or shut your mouth, Robbie._   “If you like, me bed’s big enough for two… unless you’re a sprawling sleeper.  Our Mark could take up the whole bed when–”

“Are you asking me to share your bed?”

“Just a thought,” Lewis mumbled, suddenly feeling foolish.  _Just want to make sure you don’t rush off in the middle of the night._ “No obligation.”

“I don’t think I sprawl.  No one’s ever told me I do.  Not that there’s– I have been told I snore if I drink too much, though.”

That was more information than Lewis had expected to get.  “I’ve never heard you when you’ve slept on the couch before, so you can’t be that loud,” he said lightly.  “Come on, then.”  Lewis turned back towards the bedroom, flicking off the living area light as he did so.  He didn’t look back, trusting James to follow.

 


	11. 15 January – Wednesday – Morning

 

In the morning, Lewis woke curled up facing James, but not quite touching him.  It took him a moment to recall the previous night.  They’d both been so shattered, James had started snoring softly within minutes, and Lewis was fairly sure he hadn’t been too far behind.  James’s face was smooth and calm.  At peace.  And impossibly young.

Lewis committed the image to memory.  It would be something soothing for him to recall over the coming days, when the full impact of Murray’s death finally hit the station.  When an officer was lost in the line of duty, there was a numbness that lingered for a day or two.  People busied themselves with comforting the bereaved or throwing themselves into the inevitable investigation where they could.  It was a form of denial.  Then talk would start to circulate about memorials and funeral arrangements, and that was when grief and anger would surface.

For someone like James who had a tendency to bottle everything up, the after-effects of Murray’s death could be shattering.  Lewis would be there to ensure that didn’t happen.

James yawned widely, and then opened one eye.  “Good morning,” he mumbled, and then rolled out of bed, stood, and stretched.  If he had any belated misgivings about sharing the bed, Lewis couldn’t tell.

“Show off,” murmured Lewis, grunting as he sat up.

“Shall I get breakfast started while you get ready?”

“You’re forgiven.”

 

**********

 

Lewis stared into the bathroom mirror.  He could hear James moving around in the kitchen.  From the sound of it, they’d be sitting down to either omelette or scrambled eggs, not fried, as part of their full English.  Lewis wasn’t completely surprised by James’s apparent composure – he put it down to James’s driving need to see justice done and having no real memory of what had happened – though it did worry him a little.  In James’s shoes, Lewis considered he’d probably feel the same, but he’d also feel vulnerable.  Not to the point that he’d find himself constantly on edge, but at a level which made him far more aware of his mortality than usual.  James was giving nothing away.  The best Lewis could do was watch and interpret.

 

**********

 

“Although I saw James yesterday, you know him best; what’s your assessment of him at this stage?”  Innocent folded her hands together on the desk.

When they had arrived at the station, Lewis had directed James to see Grainger while he headed straight for Innocent’s office.  He saw no point waiting for the inevitable call.

“On paper the doctor’s cleared him as physically fit to work– though he doesn’t want James driving for a bit, just to be on the safe side.”

“Is he anticipating a delayed response to something?”

“No.  I think it’s more erring on the side of caution.  James seems to have slept well enough last night, so whatever’s going on in his head isn’t playing on his mind – at least, he’s not showing it.  I don’t know if that’s good or bad.  He genuinely can’t remember anything that happened to him, and seems to have accepted getting away as… fate.  He’s aware he could have died – he’s not in denial about it – but he… I don’t know.  Whether he will or won’t remember, and what might happen then, isn’t for me to say, but I do think he’ll do better if he’s working and not sitting around at home, brooding.”  He could see by Innocent’s face that she wasn’t as sure.

“He’s your responsibility, Robbie.  I expect you to take him home if you have any doubt about his readiness, and if I have any concerns, I’ll order you both out of the nick.  Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”  That was one hurdle crossed.  “Are we linking the death of Carl Brayden with what happened on Monday?”

“It’s being debated.  There’s no evidence Caulfield was involved in Carl Brayden’s murder, and at the moment, were we to pull Caulfield in, the best we could do is detain him on suspicion of murder.”  She raised a hand, stopping Lewis’s protest.  “We don’t know who fired the gun, whether it was Caulfield or the Audi driver or perhaps Susan.  We can’t charge anyone until we can find the gun and put it in someone’s hand.  On top of that, Caulfield’s house was clean.  Susan Brayden is a common link, but it’s tenuous, and it’s still not known why Carl Brayden was killed – I’m sure Grainger’s bringing James up to date as we speak.  If we can find something concrete to connect the two cases, we will.  In the meanwhile, Helen and I will keep you informed of any developments, and vice versa.”

 

**********

 

James was at his desk when Lewis made it to their office.  A steaming mug of tea sat in the middle of Lewis’s desk.  James poured over the contents of a file, as professional and focussed as Lewis had ever seen him.

“What did Grainger have to say?”  Lewis sat down and picked up the tea.  Perfect, as always.

“Not a lot, unfortunately.  He and Hooper are now investigating the body found in the car boot near Caulfield’s road yesterday, so they’ve been under the pump a bit; however, we do have all the reports back on our case.”

“Give us the run down?”

“Carl Brayden’s tox screen has come back clean: no alcohol, no cocaine, nothing.  Not even paracetamol.  The search of his home was equally unilluminating.  It’s highly unlikely he supplied Susan with drugs of any sort.  Gurdip was able to track down a mobile account for Carl Brayden.  The call records for the past six months show he favoured Domino’s and the Chinese restaurant near his home; there are calls to and from work, a few calls to Susan’s home number, though he calls their other sister, Karen, quite often, and a number which came up as a nursing home in Abingdon, where their mother is a resident.  He also rang Crimestoppers, 999, and 101 on numerous occasions, though as he was a security guard, I suspect they’re all work related to some degree.  A PC is checking call times against Brayden’s work roster.  There were no unidentified numbers.”

“No mobile for Susan?”

“No.”

“Family, work, and food.  No mates?”

James shook his head.  “Not in the past twelve months.”

“Sad bugger.  What?”  James had tilted his head curiously.

“I was wondering what would be found if it was ever necessary to check our call records.”

“We call loads of people.”

“Yes, but once they’d eliminated all the case related numbers, would yours or mine be all that different to Carl’s?”

The thought made Lewis slightly uncomfortable.  Time to get back on track.  “Full background check?”

James blinked slowly, huffed softly, and then turned the page.  “It sounds horrid to say, but Mr Carl John Brayden was an unremarkable man.  Grew up in Cowley.  Went to school locally.  Qualified as a chef through an apprenticeship with Wolsey College.  Four years ago he qualified as a Security Guard and has worked at the MINI Plant ever since.  I’m sure I’ve told you before he had no criminal record and his driving record was spotless.  No passport record, either; the man had never been out of the country.”

“A respectable member of the community.”

“Who may have been very unimpressed with the company his sister was keeping.”

Lewis picked up the mug of tea and carefully rocked back in his chair.  “Caulfield’s flat was clean.  No drugs.  So where did Susan get them?  Who’s supplying them?”

“Perhaps the question is, where are they being supplied from?”

“Go on.”

“I doubt it’s a coincidence both Brayden and Caulfield were heading in the same direction.”

“A safe house?”

“Or a centre of operation.”

“Wonder if Peterson knows of anything out that way?  It is his area.”

“If there is, perhaps Brayden knew about it.  He sees the drugs in his sister’s bag.  It’s the final straw.  He wants a showdown.”

“But someone stops him before he gets there.  It’s possible.”

“But we don’t have anything to go on other than two murders in the same neck of the woods: no pun intended.”

“It’s worth noting down.  We can check with Peterson’s team later.  Anything else?”

“Yes.  Forensics finished with Brayden’s car.  The damage on the back _was_ from being shunted, and the level of oxidation in the exposed metal indicates it most probably happened at the time of the accident.  Forensics have examined a paint trace found embedded in one of the scratches; unfortunately the best they can come up with at the moment is that it’s from a dark green large family car.  The sample’s been sent away for further testing to try and narrow it down to a make, and maybe model.”

“So, basically, we’ve got a theory that might link the two deaths, but nothing to solve this one.”

James gave one solemn nod.  “Grainger’s team is circulating a notice to garages and workshops within a 100km radius to report any damaged vehicles being brought in for repair which match the description.  And that’s it for our case.”

“Let’s go down and see what Laxton’s got.”

James bumped gently against Lewis in the corridor.  “Is Innocent okay with me being here?”

“Aye, you’re fine, man.  Though she’s taken it on herself to make me some sort of guardian.”  Lewis stopped abruptly when James made a loud choking sound and then started to cough.  “Bloody hell!  You all right?”

James cleared his throat.  “Something caught in the back of my throat.  I’m fine.”

“You’re not coming down with something, are you?”

“No.  Really, I’m fine.”

DI Laxton met them at the door of the major incident room and swept them in.  “I hope you don’t mind, but I sort of commandeered Julie.  I needed her research on Caulfield.”

Julie’s head had popped up at her name, and Lewis waved a greeting.  “She’s a good officer; you need her, she’s yours.”

“Thanks.  Right, where to start?”  Laxton took a sweeping look around the room.  “The weapon’s been identified as a Walther P99: the firing pin marks are distinctive.  So far, it doesn’t match any previous cases, but we’re still looking.”

“An all ports warning is active for Susan and Caulfield.  We’ve traced the phone registered to Caulfield, though it appears to have been switched off, or has a flat battery.  The last verified position we have for him is within 100 metres of Susan Brayden’s home.  No surprise there.  His phone records are interesting.  He receives calls from a range of numbers, mostly work related – he’s a delivery driver for Marston’s – and we’ve verified the call he claimed to have received from a neighbour about his alarm system; the monitoring company also confirmed the alarm.  However, apart from work, there are only three other numbers he regularly calls or messages.  The one that matches the message he told you came from Susan is registered to Elizabeth Jamieson.”

“Elizabeth?  Beth?  Susan’s housemate?”  Lewis hadn’t seen that coming.

“No.  Her housemate’s mother… who’s been dead for five years.”

“Identity fraud?”

Laxton nodded, her lips pressed into a thin, tight line.

“Bit risky using a name your housemate’s going to recognise, isn’t it?” Lewis queried.

“Not when the account’s set up for email billing.  Your statement from the housemate and the search result confirmed no computers or internet access in the house, so like Caulfield we have to assume everything is done on a smartphone.”

Lewis scratched his head in frustration.  There were times he really missed the days when a paper trail was exactly that.

Laxton tapped on some other papers on the desk.  “It’s a similar story for the other two numbers – they came back as Graham Hawker from Wolvercote, who died sixteen years ago, and Leonard Pemberton from Didcot, who died thirteen years ago.  The addresses attached to the accounts are also false.  We tried to track those numbers and it’s a similar story to Caulfield: we can’t get a signal, and the call records we can get merely link the phones to each other, like some sort of twenty-first century party line.  It’s as though once they knew something was up, they stopped using the numbers.  We’ve run a check to see if any new numbers have been activated under those names; however, if they are all still in contact, odds are they’ve changed names.  These phones are a dead end unless we can attach a real person to the accounts.  This is part of something much bigger, and very well organised.”

Lewis glanced at James.  Their theory didn’t seem so theoretical now, though they still had nothing concrete.  “And the number that belongs to Susan?  Anything there?”

“Same story.  Three other numbers: Caulfield’s and the other two.  In addition, there’re very few text messages between the numbers.  It’s mostly calls.  Her home phone has a more varied list of outgoing and incoming numbers, and they’re being checked out, but so far most seem to be workmates or friends of either Susan or Beth Jamieson.  Oh, and Susan’s bank accounts haven’t been touched.”

“Why would Caulfield have a phone in his own name when none of his primary contacts do?  If this is part of… something, wouldn’t that make him a weak link?” Lewis asked.

“Not necessarily.  If it is an organised group, he could have an alias and documents ready to fall back on, and perhaps has already done so.  Or he’s their intended scapegoat and doesn’t realise the other names are false,” she concluded.

Lewis frowned.  “Do you think we should be looking for a body?”  He watched as James was drawn to the board of photographs from the crime scene.

Laxton sighed.  “Possibly two.”  She joined James at the board.  “Using the transcript of James’s call, and the tyre tracks we found, it’s been determined the shooter was most likely the driver of the second vehicle, which Murray identified as a silver Audi A8.  Someone brazen enough to shoot at strangers in broad daylight isn’t likely to let any witnesses hang around for too long.”  She folded her arms and leant against the board.  “James, did the transcript trigger any memories overnight?  Has anything come back to you?”

“No.”

“Thing is, James, we have a conundrum.”  She looked up at the ceiling.  “The records show a gap of fifteen minutes between your call… ending… and the arrival of the first officers responding to the call for back-up.  That gap goes some way to explaining why you weren’t near the crash site when they got there.  We’re assuming you managed to duck in time, and that the shooter presumed they’d killed you and didn’t check their work.  The state of ground beside the driver’s side of the vehicle would seem to indicate someone struggled – to stand up, perhaps – but neither SOCO nor any of the dog teams have been able to track you moving away from the scene, nor anywhere around York’s Wood where you were reportedly found.  They haven’t found a single piece of trace evidence, not even on the clothes you were wearing.”  She looked at James and then at Lewis.  “Trevor Halley was interviewed late yesterday afternoon.  He’s verified Father Anthony’s account of how he came to have you in his care.  Halley even took the interviewing officers out to the place where he encountered you; it’s not an unreasonable distance from where the shooting took place, but it still doesn’t explain how no-one else saw you, James.”

James looked at them in turn, his eyes settling on Lewis the longest.  “I wish I could give you some answers, but I really can’t remember.”  He sat down in the nearest chair.

“Do you know anything about the body found yesterday morning?” Lewis asked Laxton, wanting to take the focus off James.

Laxton pushed off the board and crossed the floor, retrieving a folder from another desk.  “Hooper delivered a copy of the report just before you arrived.  I haven’t looked at it yet.”  She scanned the pages.  “Ah, Evan Graves, 46 years old, solicitor, lives in–”

“Evan Graves?” Julie interrupted.  “Sorry, ma’am, sirs.  That’s the name of the solicitor who took Susan Brayden out of custody.  Sergeant Hathaway asked me to look into it before…  I left my report in your in-tray, sir,” she said to James.

“Can I get a copy for this file, please, Julie?” Laxton asked.

“I’ll print one off now, ma’am.”

Lewis looked at James and Laxton.  “That’s an… interesting… development.”

Laxton huffed out a breath, flipping her fringe.  “Ah… lives in Headington, works for himself, and, as far as has been determined, no-one is missing him.  A search was conducted of his house, where a large volume of blood, in a pool and as splatter, was found in the front room.  It’s been determined he died there – time of death was between 11pm and 1am – and lividity indicates he was moved between two and three hours after death.  Mr Graves had been severely beaten about the head – that was the cause of death – and he’d also been shot in the thigh.  Oh, my God.”

She rushed over to the board with the ballistics information and compared the photos from the Graves file to those on the board.  She turned and stared wide-eyed at Lewis and James.  “He was shot with the same gun that killed Paul Murray,” she stated.  “The firing pin marks match up, though there are other scratches which are consistent with a silencer being used – which is different.”

“Hell!”  Lewis almost fell into the chair next to James.

“So… it becomes part of your investigation?” James asked.

“It does.”

James ran his hands through his hair.  “That’s three crime scenes where Susan Brayden is the commonality.”

“Why beat a man to death when you have a gun?”  Lewis grimaced.

“It was rage.  A single shot won’t satisfy if you think you have to punish someone,” James murmured.  “But what was he being punished for?”

“Did they find anything else at this Graves’s place?”

Laxton referred to the file again.  “Forensically it was clean, like the car he was dumped in.  No hair, no fibres, and no prints other than the victims in the house, while the car had been wiped down and the few prints found were the young owners.”  She flicked over another page.  “The theft of the car was picked up on CCTV, but it’s impossible to identify who it is.”  She held up an image.  “Wearing that many layers we might as well put out an E-FIT of the Michelin Man.  An ANPR search has been requested.”

Lewis nodded.  “Where are you going from here?”

“For now we keep digging, gentlemen, and hope Caulfield crawls out of whatever rock he’s hiding under, and brings Susan with him.”

There was a knock at the open door.  Hooper stood there, staring impassively at James.  Lewis wondered how long he’d been there.

“Were you after someone, Hooper?” Laxton asked.

Hooper looked away from James slowly.  “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he said, stepping into the room.  “DI Grainger’s asked if there are any further updates.”

“Not as yet.  You’ll be informed as soon as we know anything.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

Lewis waited until Hooper was out of earshot.  “He didn’t look too pleased to see you,” he murmured to James.

Laxton looked sympathetic.  “Hooper spent quite a bit of time with Murray after Murray joined CID.  He took a shine to him and his death seems to have hit Hooper quite hard.  Don’t take it personally, James; no-one here holds you responsible for what happened.”

Lewis wasn’t so sure.  “Thanks, Helen,” he said.  “You’ll keep us informed?”

“Promise.  Look.”  Her voice dropped to a murmur.  “My copper’s nose is telling me your case is definitely linked to these other killings, and Susan Brayden’s the link, but neither the killer nor the key.  Yours?”

Lewis exchanged a quick but charged glance with James and nodded.

“Good.”  She relaxed slightly.  “Jean and I have talked and we both agree we need both of you in on this investigation: we need to pool resources and information, and cross reference everything.  No detail is too small.”

Lewis grimaced.  “But James is too close to the case, and that makes me too close.”

“I know.  Jean’s going to the Chief Constable to argue the case.  We believe it can be done without compromising the integrity of the investigation.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“So do we.”  Laxton looked around the room as the murmur of voices surrounded them.  The work of finding a murderer continued.  “What are you doing now?”

James straightened up.  “I saw Gurdip on the way to the office this morning.  He indicated he might have something for us on Brayden’s movements leading up to his murder.”

“That’s where we’ll be then.”  Lewis made for the door.

 


	12. 15 January – Wednesday – Afternoon/evening

 

 

Gurdip looked well-pleased with himself.

“What have you got for us, man?”  Lewis pulled a chair up beside Gurdip.  James sat on the edge of the desk on the other side of Gurdip.

“I found Carl Brayden’s car in the car park in St Giles, which is walking distance to the restaurant in question.”  He brought up an image.  “This is the closest angle we’ve got on it, but the registration is clear enough.”  The image played and sped up.  Gurdip stopped it as two figures, a man and a woman judging by their clothing, approached the vehicle.  The woman was aggressively stabbing the air near the man’s face with a finger.

James leant in.  “That would be Susan and Carl, and she doesn’t look happy.”

The two figures entered the car, and it sat there for several minutes before the brake and reverse lights came on.

“Do you think they were still arguing?” Gurdip asked.

“She didn’t come across as exactly fond of her brother, so I’d say yes.”  James straightened up as the car drove away.

“What’s the time on that, Gurdip?”  Lewis pointed at the blurred timecode in the corner of the video.

“10:50pm.”

“10.50?  Beth Jamieson must have got her times wrong.”  He grabbed a Post-it note and a pen and wrote as he talked.  “The accident happened at midnight, Beth Jamieson said Susan arrived home around midnight, but Susan said she arrived home at half-eleven or thereabouts.”

James held out his hand for the note.  “All three statements can’t be true.”

“We’ve got the 999 call; that’s verified.”  Lewis thumped the tip of his index finger on the desk to mark the point.  “And logic says Carl couldn’t have had the accident _and_ dropped Susan off at the same time.”

James frowned in concentration.  “But even if Carl had dropped her off at half-eleven, that wouldn’t have given him enough time to get out to Woodperry Hill by midnight – not with the road conditions the way they were.”

“I think I can clear that up for you.”  Gurdip closed the window and opened another.  “We lose the car for a bit, and then pick it up near Tesco’s on the Cowley Road just after eleven.  He stops here for some reason and she takes off.”

They watched as Susan ran down Chapel Street.  The car followed her, only to reappear a short time later.

Lewis asked, “Any idea if he caught her?”

“No, he didn’t.”

Another window popped up showing Susan running down a lane.  Brayden’s car drove past and then returned, facing back towards the Cowley Road.

“I’m guessing he did a three-point turn.”  Gurdip shrugged.  “There’s nothing on tape.”

The car briefly sat at the end of the laneway before speeding off.  Gurdip closed the window.

“Where does Susan go?” James folded his arms.

Gurdip shook his head.  “I don’t know.  I can’t find her after that.  She could have caught a taxi.”

“And Brayden?”

“He backtracks to the A420, and we can pick him up on various cameras all the way to the Headington roundabout, where he turns onto Bayswater Road.”

Gurdip opened a series of windows featuring the car crawling along in unusually heavy traffic.

Lewis rolled his chair a little closer.  “What time did he get to the roundabout?”

“11.42pm; there were multiple accidents along the road, which slowed traffic right down.”

James stared at the ceiling.  “It fits.  It took us about twenty minutes to get from the roundabout to the scene that night.”

“What doesn’t fit is Susan’s statement that she was home at half past eleven.”

On the monitor, Brayden’s car approached the Headington roundabout.

“Pause it?” James asked.  He pointed at the car behind Brayden’s.  “Could be the car we’re looking for.  Can’t tell the exact colour, but it is dark and a large family car.  Do you have a clearer shot, Gurdip?”

“Several,” Gurdip replied flatly.  “And in each and every one, the plates are obscured, and the driver’s hoodie prevents a clear shot at his face.”  Gurdip opened a series of images on a second monitor.

“Was there something wrong with the cameras?” Lewis asked.  Distortions in the images warped the shape of the car.

“Moisture, sleet, cold, vandalism – take your pick,” Gurdip replied with a shrug.

“And there’s nothing wrong with the digital files?” James asked.

Gurdip pressed his lips together and shook his head.  “I went back twenty-four and forty-eight hours.  Very little of the footage is distortion free.  I’ve reported the camera.”

“So someone’s got lucky, or unlucky, in Brayden’s case.”  Lewis huffed a frustrated breath.

“I’ll do what I can with images,” Gurdip said.  “And I’ll print out the clearest ones and see if anyone can determine a make and model.”

“What about the driver?” James asked.  Gurdip zoomed in on one image.

“This is the best angle we’ve got.”

“What do you think?” Lewis asked James.

“It could be anyone.  You can’t even really say if it’s a man or a woman.”

Lewis moved closer to the image.  “Is there any possibility it could be Caulfield driving someone else’s car?”

“Caulfield?  The bloke they’re after for…?” Gurdip asked cautiously.

“Yeah, and if he turns out to be the driver of that car, we’ll be after him for Brayden as well.  Whoever’s driving that car–”  Lewis pointed at the monitor.  “–has done a damn good job of hiding their identity.”

Gurdip’s head swivelled between Lewis and James.  “There is software that can compare facial features.  If you have a digital image of Caulfield we can give it a shot.”

“You’ve got a chin and half a cheek; how are you going to compare that?”  Lewis looked quizzically at Gurdip.

“Can’t hurt to try.”

He had a point.  “Can you bring up drivers’ licence photos here?”

“Give me some details.”

Gurdip gave a low whistle when Andrew Caulfield’s image loaded.

“What is it?” Lewis asked.

“I know his face has been all over the news, but I hadn’t made the connection.”

“Have you seen him before all this business?”

“Yes.  I’ve been reviewing footage from several pubs for DI Peterson, tracing the movements of three men who are believed to be part of a major cocaine operation.  This bloke–”  Gurdip tapped the screen.  “–has turned up a number of times.  I was told by DI Peterson we didn’t need to monitor him.  I know he’s from one of the breweries, but I’ve never had a name for him.  I don’t know why I didn’t see the similarity before.”

It was an unexpected development.  “Do you think you can bring up anything with him in it?”

Gurdip’s cheeks puffed out and he stared at Lewis.  “Not quickly.  We weren’t watching him, so I can’t say for certain if we’ve archived any footage with him in it.”

“Bring up Carl Brayden’s licence photo,” James said, giving Gurdip the details.

“What’re you thinking?” Lewis asked, though he had a fair idea.

“Susan Brayden claimed her brother gave her the cocaine.  If that’s true, and I realise it’s a long shot, he had to get it from somewhere.  Maybe he’s somewhere on the same footage.”

“I don’t recognise him,” Gurdip murmured, peering at Carl Brayden’s image.  “Doesn’t mean he’s not there, though.  Just means he’s not a regular.”

“Have you been advised when Peterson’s due back in?” Lewis asked.

“I’ve been told he might be in tomorrow if his doctor clears him.”

Lewis rested a hand on Gurdip’s shoulder and bent low to his ear.  “In that case, while Laxton’s team’s looking at Caulfield’s movements since Monday, I’d like you to review the footage you have and see if you can find either him or Brayden.”

“I’m on it.”

 

* * *

 

James re-read the report on his monitor.  Gurdip had run the facial comparison, and the result was inconclusive.  It was what they’d expected, but even if they couldn’t identify Caulfield, it would also have been useful to be able to eliminate him.

He leant heavily on the desk with his chin cradled in his hands.  He continued to stare at the screen, no longer seeing its content.  He recalled the way Hooper had looked at him.  A blind man could see Hooper blamed him.  James blamed himself, regardless of the evidence and Lewis’s reassurances.  The simple fact remained that, if they hadn’t committed to following Caulfield, Murray would still be alive.  It didn’t matter to James that Lewis had trusted him and given him a green light.  As far as James was concerned, it had been his decision.  He’d read the transcript.  It was there in black and white, and, if he really wanted to, he could listen to himself saying it.  If he’d kept his mouth shut, ignored his gut instinct, and stopped Caulfield driving away after seeing Susan get into the car, none of this would be happening, and Murray would be sitting at his desk.

James appreciated that Lewis was doing everything he could to ensure James didn’t wallow and over-think; he’d even tried to shift the responsibility to himself.  That was something James admired about the man: he never hesitated to admit when he’d made a mistake, and he never tried to shift blame off himself.

A wad of paper bounced off his nose.  James was so caught up in his thoughts, it took him a second or two to realise what had happened.  He picked up the crumpled ball and stared at it.

“Should I send you home, sergeant?”  James looked up to see Lewis looking at him worriedly.  “Did you hear a word I said?”

“Woolgathering.”  James took a mouthful of cold coffee.  God, how long had that been sitting there?  “Sorry, you were saying?”

“What do you make of Peterson dismissing Caulfield because he’s connected to a brewery?  Someone in that position could move freely in and out of a series of pubs and no-one would question it.  You’d think that’d make him worth watching.”

James narrowed his eyes.  “Gurdip said they weren’t watching him _and_ he worked for a brewery, not _because_ he worked for a brewery.  I don’t recall Gurdip giving any reason why Caulfield was off surveillance.  Perhaps Peterson knows more about Caulfield than he’s said to anyone.  If he was in, we could ask him.”

Lewis stood up.  “Or we could go back down and check the files.”

 

* * *

 

Gurdip was grinning like the Cheshire cat.  “Excellent timing, sirs,” he called out as Lewis entered the room with James.  “I was just about to call you.”

“Have you found something?”  Lewis decided the files could wait a little longer.

“It’s brief but… come see for yourself.”

The paused image was one of the clearest Lewis had seen.  “This from one of the newer cameras?”

“You noticed?”  Gurdip beamed.  “I don’t understand why some people say you’re… yes; it’s from a high-res digital camera.”

“What was it this time?”  Lewis held Gurdip’s gaze.  “Luddite, troglodyte, or technically challenged?”

“Do I have to answer?”

“You can’t plead the Fifth,” James said soberly.  “So I’d say it was in your best interests to come clean.”

“Alloftheabove.  This is Caulfield _and_ Brayden, sir.”  Gurdip took a breath and focussed on the monitor.  James grinned cheekily over Gurdip’s head, and Lewis resisted the urge to give James a clip behind the ear.  They both looked at Gurdip’s screen.

“You can play it now, thanks,” Lewis said.  “Oh.  Pause that?”  Both men were easily recognisable, and the first seconds had revealed Brayden marching up to Caulfield and taking a wild swing at his head.  The larger man had easily dodged the wayward fist and taken up a fighting stance.  If Caulfield had lashed out, Brayden would have been in serious trouble.  It was like pitting a heavyweight against a lightweight.

James leant on the desk.  “Caulfield would have no difficulty choking the life out of someone like Brayden.”

Lewis had to agree.  “There’s certainly no love lost there.  Look at the way they’re talking to each other.  See it?”

“They know each other, or at least Brayden knows who Caulfield is.  That wasn’t a chance meeting.  Do you think Brayden had been looking for Caulfield?”

“Seems that way.  When was this taken, Gurdip?”

“The Saturday before Carl Brayden died.”

“A week.”  Lewis considered the possibilities.  “Is that the only footage of both of them?”

“It’s all I’ve found so far.  There is more of Caulfield if you want to see it.”

“Bring it up.”

There were three short clips in total.

“Are they all taken at the same pub?” James asked.

Gurdip checked his notes.  “Yes, the Drum and Quill on the Cowley Road.”

“That’s not a Marston’s pub, is it?” James said.  “He wouldn’t have been making a delivery, so why’s he there?”

“It is a Marston’s pub, sir.  They bought it six months ago.” Gurdip answered.  “There’ve been some delays getting the signage changed over.”

“And is that all there is?”  Lewis hunched forward to look at their target on the screen.

“I can keep looking at the footage we’ve archived, if you want me to,” Gurdip offered.  “Would you like me to concentrate on The Drum and Quill or Saturday afternoons, or…?”

“No, this is fine, Gurdip.  Excellent work.”  Lewis straightened up.  “Can we get a series of stills, please, of the two men together?  As clear as you can make them.  I don’t think we need any of Caulfield on his own.”

“I’ll have them on your desk in the morning.”

“Thanks.  Do you know why Caulfield wasn’t being monitored?”

Gurdip opened and closed his mouth.  “No.  Not really.  DI Peterson’s been keeping meticulous notes, so I assume he’d have made some record.”

“Where does he keep the files?  I wouldn’t mind taking a look.  He might have something that could help us.”

“He keeps them locked in his desk, sir.  The details of this operation are on a strictly need-to-know basis.  I’m sorry, sir.  We’ve all been sworn to keep the details within the team until DI Peterson thinks we have enough to go after the ringleaders.”

 

**********

 

Lewis took the offered mug of tea from James.  “Peterson’s secrecy seems a little excessive, don’t you think?” Lewis mused.  “It’s one thing to keep information within your team – we all do that to one degree or another – but how’s his team supposed to pick up on changes in behaviour if they don’t know why they are or aren’t monitoring someone?  And how are other senior officers going to know if they have relevant information arising from other cases if he’s keeping everything in hard copy, under lock and key?”

“Peterson could run a series of searches on the database on a regular basis, looking for key names and places,” James suggested.  “Then he could collate the information himself and manually cross-reference.”

“Even if he is planning another raid, it’s an inefficient way to work; things are going to be missed.  I don’t like it.  If Peterson hadn’t proved himself to be such a by-the-book copper, sticking his face out there and chumming up everyone from the Chief Super up to the Chief Constable, he’d be at the top of my list of dodgy coppers.”

“Just because his face is out there doesn’t mean he’s not doing something dodgy in the background.  He could be hiding in plain sight.”  James was serious.

“Bloody hell, lad, do you hear what you’re saying?”

“No-one’s above suspicion.”

“And we still regard people as innocent until proven guilty.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t keep an eye on him.”

“Let’s have a word with him when he comes in, find out on what grounds he dismissed Caulfield, and see if he has anything else which might be related to Brayden or Caulfield that could help us.  The last thing we need is to get anyone offside at this stage.”

“Or warn them.”

“We’ll do what we always do: gather the facts and pull the pieces together.  Everything goes through Innocent.”

James nodded his agreement.

 

**********

 

Lewis groaned softly as he pushed himself back from his desk.  It was more frustration at dead ends, the lack of leads, and missing suspects than tiredness.  James had gone outside for a cigarette, and Lewis decided another cup of tea was in order.

He passed the incident room, where Laxton’s team seemed to have lost some of their momentum.  Not surprising, really.  The reality of Murray's death would be sinking in for some.  For others, this might be the first major investigation they'd been involved in, and they'd be discovering answers didn't roll in one after the other, that a clue or a lead led to a dead end more often than to an arrest.  There'd be one or two who'd be questioning their decision to join the police, and perhaps, though Lewis wanted to be horribly wrong, someone in that room wasn't who they appeared to be.

Innocent stepped up beside him. “Lewis.”

“Ma'am.”

“Is James with you?”

“Smoke break.”

Innocent huffed.  “Those things are going to be the death of him one day.”

“So I keep telling him.”  Which wasn't entirely true.  Lewis had given up his gentle nudging over a year ago, having reached the conclusion the more you prodded James the less likely he was to do what you hoped he would.

“When you find him, I'd like to see you both in my office.”

She left without further explanation.

 

**********

 

Tea forgotten, Lewis headed for the car park.  James wasn't there.  Lewis hadn't passed him on the way out, and James never smoked out the front of the building, which left one place.

James wasn't in Pathology either.

“I haven't seen him at all today, Robbie.”  Laura dried her hands.  “Is he all right?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“I heard he wasn't allowed to drive.”

“Ah, doctor's just being cautious.”

“Luckily for James, you don't mind driving him around.”

“No.”

“Robbie, what is it?”

“I've just realised that if I hadn't had my performance appraisal, I was the one who was going to go after Susan Brayden.”

“With James?”

Lewis shook his head.  “No, Murray.  James took Murray at my suggestion.”

“Robbie.”

“Don't worry.  I'm not going to go in circles with 'what-ifs'.  God knows, James does enough of that for both of us.  No, it's just one more thing to worry about him thinking about.”

She gently rubbed his upper arm.  “You're aware of it, and that's what's important.”

“I suppose so.”

“If anyone can work out what's going on in James's mind, it's you, Robbie.  You'd better go find him.”

“Aye.  Thanks, Laura.”

 

**********

 

He found James in the incident room, once again studying the photographs.

Lewis walked up quietly behind him.  “Where did you get to?”

“I was impatient.  I went to see if Gurdip had the images ready early.”

“And?”

“Tomorrow morning, like he said.”

Lewis touched James's elbow.  “Come on, you.  Innocent wants to see us.”

“About what?”

“Hopefully the Chief Constable’s on our side.”

 

**********

 

“Please sit down, gentlemen.”  She gave them a moment to settle.  “I’ll keep this brief as it’s nearly knocking off time: you’re both in on the wider investigation which now encompasses the deaths of Carl Brayden, Acting DC Murray, and Evan Graves, and the disappearances of Susan Brayden and Andrew Caulfield.  Although the links between Carl Brayden and the rest are tenuous, it’s been agreed it would be foolish not to investigate them together.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”  Lewis and James spoke as one.

“Don’t thank me just yet; there are conditions.”  Lewis had expected this.  Officers were rarely, if ever, involved directly in an investigation where they, or their partner, had been a victim.  “Your focus is still Carl Brayden and his killer.  Anything you find which is connected to the other cases is to be passed immediately to DI Laxton, as Senior Investigating Officer.  Both of you, and DI Grainger, will report directly to her.”

“Not yourself, ma’am?” Lewis asked. 

“I can’t be as fully involved as I’d like, so I’ve delegated the authority.”

James leant forward in the chair, pushing his elbows hard against the armrests.  “Does that mean we have to get DI Laxton’s approval before starting any line of enquiry?”

“Under these circumstance, ideally, yes, but I appreciate it won’t always be practical.  I trust you to use your judgement.”

James nodded.

“That’s all.  Now go home, both of you.  You can start fresh tomorrow.”

 

**********

 

Lewis grabbed his coat as soon as he walked into the office.  “Reckon that's it for today, unless you've anything you need to finish off.”

James was bent over his keyboard.  He peered over the top of his monitor.  “And disobey the Chief Super?”

“Well, grab your coat, then.”  James walked around behind Lewis’s desk.  “What’re you doing?”

“Just checking your computer,” James murmured.  “You should shut down, not merely lock it.”  He had a point.  Lewis stepped towards his desk.  James glanced up.  “It’s okay.  I’ve got it.”

“You’ve got it?  You need my password to unlock it first.”

“I know.”  A faint smile crossed James’s face.

“You know my password?”

“It wasn’t hard to guess.”  James headed for the door, taking his coat from the hook as he did so.

“Are you saying I’m predictable?”  Lewis switched off the light and followed James out of the office.

“Only to someone who knows you as well as I do.”

“God help us if you ever decide to turn to crime.”

“Me?  Crime?  Heaven forbid, sir.”

“It’s always the ones you least suspect, you know.”

 

* * *

 

James lay in the dark and stared drowsily at the ceiling.  After leaving the station, they’d picked up a takeaway and gone straight to Lewis’s flat.  Nothing had been discussed, yet everything had been agreed.

If he’d been asked if he was tired, James would have denied it, and he’d been fine until he’d sat on the couch.  The cushions had moulded to his body, accepting him into their comforting embrace.  Lewis had sat beside him, and the familiar warmth of his leg and shoulder against James’s had broken through James’s defences.  He’d felt his head drooping as his arms and legs grew heavy.  It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, nor was it common.  He was sure he’d be all right in the morning.  Over time, James had learned some experiences were harder to bounce back from, and, let’s face it, he’d thought, I’m not getting any younger.

James carefully rolled onto his side, settling his head into the pillow.  Beside him, Lewis was curled up on his side, snuffling softly.  It was a funny sort of snore.  James smiled fondly and considered his position.  He’d surprised himself when he’d accepted the initial offer to sleep beside Lewis.  He’d made similar, ultimately disastrous decisions in the past because he’d misjudged the invitation and had only seen what was being offered, and not what was being sought of him.  Even after it had happened on repeated occasions, he still hadn’t learnt.  Time and experience didn’t always bring wisdom when the heart was yearning for comfort from a hopefully kindred soul.

However, when Lewis had asked James to share his bed, James had seen it for what it was: an offer of friendship and comfort, a place where James could feel safe.  Lewis carried no hidden agenda, no longings of his own, of that James had been absolutely certain.  James had been ready to sleep on the couch tonight, but when Lewis had been worried James wouldn’t get enough sleep there, James hadn’t wanted Lewis to lie awake worrying about him.  He knew this wouldn’t be an ongoing arrangement, and that was fine.  James had Lewis’s friendship, and that was all he needed.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t the best of conditions for this sort of thing.  Graham would have preferred it to be a little drier, though the weather offered the advantage of keeping unexpected witnesses away.  The walls of the quarry provided some shelter.  It would have to do.

The siphon burbled and stopped as the last few dribbles of petrol trickled from the tank into the jerry can.  He grunted as he hefted and swung the nearly full can, liberally dousing the interior of the car and the still form lying across the back seat.

He carried the jerry can back to the vehicle parked in the shadow of the quarry, near the access road.  After carefully wiping down the can and wrapping it in an old blanket, he placed it carefully behind the driver’s seat.

“How much longer are we going to be here?” came the harsh whisper from the front.

“Five minutes.  Patience isn’t your strong suit, is it, Drew – sorry, you prefer Andrew, don’t you?”  Graham took a bottle of white spirits and strips of cloth from a bucket sitting on the back seat.

“You’re not the one being hunted.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“I was–”

Graham slammed his hand on the roof.  “You were told to be careful yet you couldn’t see when you were being followed.  You were hired as security, protection.  Useless.”

“At least I’m not the one who shot–”

“Shut.  Up.  Now.”

“It’s all her fucking brother’s fault.  If he’d backed off when–”  Caulfield fell silent as Graham pressed the silencer to the side of his head, poking it through the gap between the headrest and the window.

“Would you like to join Susan?  There’s room.”  Caulfield gave a minute shake of his head.  “I didn’t think so.”  Graham opened the driver’s door, reached in, and removed the keys from the ignition.  “Wouldn’t want you to do anything stupid.”

Walking away from a visibly trembling Caulfield, Graham opened the white spirits and began to feed the cloth strips through the neck of the bottle.  It was crude, but it would do the job.

 


	13. 16 January – Thursday – Morning

 

Lewis made his way sleepily from the bedroom to the kitchen.  He remembered James starting to drift off on the couch, and his gracious acceptance of the offer of half the bed again.  He didn’t remember a thing after his head hit the pillow until he woke to the faint light trying to push its way around the closed curtains.  He hadn’t slept that well since… well, since the night before, but prior to that it had been months, possibly years since his sleep had been so dreamlessly deep.

James was sitting at the kitchen table, his long fingers wrapped around a mug, and the _Oxford Mail_ spread open across half the table.  The half-full cafetière sat next to another mug, and Lewis sat down with a soft sigh before filling the mug.  He inhaled deeply and took his first sip.

“No milk?”  James looked across the table enquiringly.

“Can’t be arsed to get up for it.”

“I thought you’d slept well?  You were sound asleep when I got up.”

“I did.  Might have had too much sleep.”  Lewis looked closely at James.  His hair was shower-damp, his skin slightly flushed, and he was dressed in a hoodie, which wasn’t appropriate work wear.  “Have you been up and out already this morning?”  Lewis must have been dead to the world if he hadn’t heard the shower running.

“Had to nip up to the shop for a couple of packets of cigarettes and semi-skimmed milk.  I didn’t pick up any yesterday, and you only had whole milk.”

Lewis shook his head and chuckled.  “You’re too fussy, that’s your problem.”

James closed and folded the paper and passed it to Lewis.  “I’ll get breakfast started: eggs and toast okay?”

“Aye.  Have we used all the bacon?”

“You had bacon yesterday.”

“Are you me mother now?”

James gave him the oddest look.  “I think it would be nice to keep you around for as long as possible, and if that means protecting your arteries, then that’s what I’ll do.”

Lewis tipped his head curiously behind James’s back.  Daft sod, he thought fondly.  “Better make those eggs poached, then.”

“I was going to.”

Lewis snapped the paper open.  Caulfield’s face once again graced the front page, with a double page spread inside showing E-FIT images of how he might look if he tried to disguise himself.  Susan’s photo was at the bottom of the page.  The article was written to garner sympathy for her.  It was a sad fact there were those who would do anything to protect someone who’d killed a police officer.  A woman in distress – no way on earth would Lewis consider Susan Brayden a damsel – on the other hand, would attract sympathy and increase the chances of someone reporting any sighting.

A smaller story about Graves’s murder ran on page three, along with a photo of the stolen car.  Nowhere was the connection to Paul Murray’s murder mentioned.  Page seven carried a story about Murray, with a photo of the young man and his fiancée, and another in his dress uniform.  It was a shocking waste of life, leaving behind shattered dreams, hopes, and lives.  What angered Lewis most was they weren’t even sure they were after the right person.  Someone else had been on that road in the woods and they still had no idea who it was or where they were.

The contentment he’d felt when he first woke had gone.  “I’m going for a shower.”  He took the paper with him, dropping it in the bin on his way to the bathroom.  Lewis felt James’s eyes follow him and he looked back.  James understood.

 

**********

 

“Here’re the images from Gurdip.”  James laid out the six stills across Lewis’s desk.  “These are some of the best I’ve seen.”

It wasn’t only pictures that spoke a thousand words.  Body language spoke volumes, and Lewis had had plenty of practice reading the lies beneath the words of both witnesses and suspects.  Freeze someone’s actions and expressions in an image, without words to cloud the issue, and a person’s true intent could be even easier to discern.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”  Lewis tapped the one image that clearly showed both men’s faces.

“If looks could kill, Caulfield should be the one who’s dead, and Brayden in a cell.”

“Any theories bouncing around that big brain of yours?”

James retrieved the case file from his desk and flicked through pages.  A deep crease formed above the bridge of his nose.  “We know Carl wasn’t involved with drugs, and from the search of Caulfield’s flat nor was he.  Susan’s the only link we’re aware of between the two men.”

“And Evan Graves.”

“And Graves,” James repeated soberly.  “Carl and Susan’s father passed away when she was eight and he was fourteen.  Over-protective older brother, wayward little sister?”

“Protecting her or protecting himself and his reputation?”

“Both?”

“She resents it?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“I did.  But also knew my brother was only doing what mam and dad expected him to.”

“Did you rebel?”

“I didn’t turn to drugs.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“We were discussing Susan and Carl Brayden, not my youth in Newcastle.  Get back on topic, sergeant.”  Lewis lobbed a ball of paper at James’s head, ducking when it was deftly swatted back toward him with a backhand flick of the file.  “Sod.”

“You have to admit it was a good shot.”

“The case, James.”

“People rebel against their parents keeping too tight control over their lives.  How many assaults have we seen where young adults have lashed out at an overprotective parent?  Why would a sibling be immune?”

“They wouldn’t.”

“But Susan didn’t strangle Carl.  We’ve no evidence to say she even knew where he was going.”

“But he was going somewhere in a hurry, and we know it wasn’t home or Susan’s place.”

“We also know it wasn’t Andrew Caulfield’s place in Cowley either, but if that confrontation with Caulfield is anything to go by, it now seems logical Brayden was going after him.”

“Which means he didn’t know Caulfield was clean, that someone else was supplying the drugs.  But if Brayden was after Caulfield on Saturday night, why was he heading out past Blackwater Wood?”

“All of which brings us back to an as yet unknown third party – the supplier – and destination.”  James pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Was a property search run on Caulfield?”

James thumbed rapidly through the pages.  “Nothing here.  DI Laxton might have something on her files.”

“Think it’s time we checked in with our SIO, don’t you?”

Lewis led the way into the incident room.

“Welcome to the team.”  Laxton joined them by the door.

“Busy,” Lewis commented.  Every desk was occupied, with half-a-dozen officers taking calls.  Almost as soon as one hung up, their phone would ring again.

“It’s been like this since seven.  I’ve had to ‘acquire’ some PCSOs so I can free up officers for door to doors and other tasks.”

“The usual dross?”

Laxton rolled her eyes.  “We’ve had four calls to say Susan Brayden was in the audience on X-Factor last night, and Caulfield’s jeep has been reported as far west as Caernarvon, and north to Inverness.  Curiously, neither south nor east.”

“Yet,” James murmured.

“Quite,” Laxton grunted.  “I’ll let you know if we hear anything else.  Did you get the email from Jean?”

“Memorial drinks tomorrow night for Paul Murray?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll be there, won’t we James?”

“Yes,” James replied quietly, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

Laxton shuffled her feet uncomfortably and coughed.  “Did you come down for anything specific?”

“Andrew Caulfield.  Do we know if he had any other property apart from the flat in Cowley?”

“Julie’s got that.”  Laxton pointed to a desk in the far corner of the room where Julie Lockhart was on the phone. 

 

**********

 

“That was a waste of time.”  Lewis turned into the break room, expecting James to follow.

“Not entirely.”  James reached the worktop before Lewis and began to prepare two cups.

“When did you become the breezy optimist?”

“Ha.”  James added hot water to the cups.  “There’s no such thing as bad information, only relevant and irrelevant, and that category can shift depending on what else you learn.”

“And the fact that no-one is connected to any property other than where they live tells us what exactly?”

“It confirms our theory there’s an unknown player who lives or works somewhere to the north east of the city, somewhere accessed by leaving the city via Bayswater Road.  If Brayden was after Caulfield, it also tells us he didn’t know Caulfield lived in Cowley, but he did know which pub to find him at to confront him, and apparently had some idea where Caulfield might have been that night.”

“You think Brayden was following Caulfield?”

James shook his head.  He dropped the used teabags in the bin.  “I think he was following Susan.”

The pieces slotted together for Lewis.  “Susan lied when she told us she had no idea why her brother would be out Woodperry Hill way.”  He accepted the cup James offered him and sipped with confidence.  Station catering didn’t stretch to the ‘good’ teabags, but Lewis could always rely on James to get a decent brew out of them.  “She could have told someone where her brother was going, warned them.”

“And I think that’s someone we’re yet to identify.”

“I think it’s time to see if Peterson’s in – after this though.”  Lewis raised his tea.

 

**********

 

“Good to see you back on deck, man.”  Lewis had spotted Peterson limping into his office as he and James had turned into the corridor.  “Heard you took a spill?”

“Thanks.  Black ice can be a bastard when you’re on a bike.”  Peterson lowered himself gingerly into his chair.  “What brings you down here?”

Lewis put one of the images Gurdip had printed for him, a head shot of Andrew Caulfield, on the desk.  “What can you tell me about this bloke?”

“Who is he?”

Was Peterson serious?  “Andrew Caulfield; he’s all over the papers.”

“Right.  God, bloody awful business that.”  He looked at James.  “I hear it’s a bit of a miracle you escaped.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Peterson’s eyes narrowed.  “You don’t remember what happened?”

“No,” James replied tersely. 

Peterson hastily looked at the image again.  “I’m sorry, I don’t know him.”

The shift in Peterson’s demeanour aroused Lewis’s curiosity almost as much as his vagueness on the current state of affairs.  Although it hadn’t been in the papers, James’s memory loss wasn’t a secret around the station.  Lewis was surprised it hadn’t been mentioned to Peterson, but then he didn’t know how long Peterson had been in today and who he’d spoken to.

“You eliminated him as part of whatever it is you’ve got Gurdip on,” Lewis said patiently.  “Any chance I can get a look at the file?  Might give us an idea of where he’s gone to ground.”

“Ah, look… there’re some names in that file I can’t afford to let slip out.  Planning quite a big raid in the next couple of weeks.”

“I am a police officer, y’know.  Swore the same oath as you.”

Peterson raised his hands in a gesture of apology.  “I know, but if something were to slip out, then the fewer eyes that have seen it, the better – narrows the field a bit.”

Lewis waited for Peterson to indicate it was a joke.  Peterson simply stared blankly at him.  “Look, can you help us or not?  A copy of your notes on Caulfield would be a start,” Lewis asked.

Peterson blinked as though he’d just woken up.  “What?  Oh.  Yes.  Um, leave it with me and I’ll get back to you.”

“Are you all right, man?”

Peterson looked apologetic.  “Painkillers.  They’re pretty strong.  You ever come off a motorbike?”

“Can’t say I’ve had that particular misfortune.”

“Is there anything else, Lewis?  Only I do have a couple of days to catch up on.”

“Yeah, one thing.  You don’t happen to know if any of the people you’re looking into live or work north east of the city, say between here and Aylesbury?”

“Not off the top of my head, no.  If you’re looking at someone specific, I can ask one of the team to look into it for you; might take a couple of days though.”

“If we had names, I could do the checks,” James said dryly.

Peterson glared at James.  “You can’t expect me to volunteer names and risk you or someone else questioning them.  A lot of man hours and resources have been poured into this investigation so far and I can’t afford to have people suddenly disappearing off the radar.”

“Okay.”  Lewis raised a hand to placate Peterson, and warned James with a glance.  “We’re not asking you to give up names.  We just want to know if you’re aware of anyone with links between here and Aylesbury.  We’re trying to find out who killed a young copper.”

“Right.  Sorry.  The accident’s thrown me.”  Peterson sighed heavily.  “I’ll ask someone to do a location search on the information we have.  I can’t promise a fast result, or any result.”

“Thanks.”

With another glance at James, the two men left Peterson slumped behind his desk.  There was something not right about that bloke, and Lewis was convinced it had nothing to do with his accident.  Something smelled off, and it was more than the lingering odour of Peterson’s Eau de Prat.  Dear God, if James was right…  Lewis quietly hoped this really was a case of Peterson being hyper-vigilant, but it was becoming harder to quell the voice of disquiet.

 

**********

 

It was a waiting game.  There were still no confirmed sightings of Caulfield or Susan, despite over one hundred calls coming in to the incident room.  Caulfield’s Jeep was still missing.  Lewis and James were no further along on Brayden’s murder.  Laxton had yet to assign them any additional tasks, and they weren’t aware of any new information surfacing.

Lewis was generally a patient man, but when investigations stalled, when it felt like time was being wasted, those were the times he became impatient.  He wanted something to happen.  Even minute progress was progress.  He could see James wasn’t any happier about the situation.  Though he’d managed to distract himself and fill over an hour completing standard reports, James had fidgeted the entire time, checking his watch, his email, the clock, glancing up expectantly every time someone passed their door.  He was waiting for the next development even more impatiently than Lewis.

“Yes!”

Lewis started at James’s exclamation.  “What is it?”  He was beside James’s chair in four paces.

“Julie was looking deeper into some of the key players for Laxton; she’s cc’d me in.  She’s traced Caulfield back five years to when he arrived in Oxford and started work with Marston’s, but prior to that, she’s drawn a large blank.  He has a current passport, so he would have needed valid documentation to get that, and there’s one bank account Julie’s been able to find.  But, if he does have an alias, there could be other accounts we’ve no way yet of tracing.”

“You think Marston’s would have had references or something on file, something to fill in the picture before he started there.”

“Julie’s pretty thorough.  If there was something to be found, I’m confident she’d find it.”

“So am I.  What else is there?”

“Carl and Susan Brayden are third generation Oxford natives.  Their mother’s been in the nursing home in Abingdon for the past four years.  Carl was living in what had been his parents’ home.  Susan’s been at the Blackbird Leys address for five years, and before that she’d been living with a boyfriend who walked out on her one day.”

“How’d Julie get that information?”

“Friends, workmates.”

“Makes sense.”

“The solicitor, Evan Graves, graduated from the University of Leeds, and worked in Liverpool and Cardiff, before settling in Oxford ten years ago.  His career has been unremarkable, and his lifestyle apparently doesn’t match his stated income.  A quote from a neighbour: ‘He was living well beyond his means.’”

“Unless he had a second income he never declared.”

“Proceeds of crime?”

“Or paid well to keep people out of prison.”

“He got Susan Brayden out of custody, so why did he end up in a car boot less than twenty-four hours later?” James asked.

“If he had inside help, someone making sure the paperwork on Susan disappeared, maybe he somehow compromised them.  Or he did something completely unrelated and unconnected to Susan.”

“You don’t think that’s likely.”

“No.  It comes back to Susan Brayden again.”

 

**********

 

The email notification pinged on Lewis’s computer and his phone rang at the same time.  Lewis sat as he answered the phone.

“Lewis.”

_“Lewis, Alan.  Just dropped you an email with the information you wanted on Caulfield.  It’s not much, I’m afraid.  Oh, and I’ve asked PC Barnes to search for anyone with links to Buckinghamshire.”_

“Got it.  Thanks.”

James was looking at him expectantly and Lewis relayed the call.

“We never specified Buckinghamshire.”  James’s puzzled frown matched Lewis’s response.

“Makes you wonder how much he already knows and isn’t saying.”

James humphed.  “What does he say about Caulfield?”

Lewis opened the short Word document and skimmed.  “Um… investigated as part of a large exercise reviewing all brewery personnel who regularly visited licensed premises…  He’d been seen to return to non-Marston’s hotels on several occasions and was put under surveillance for a week…  No untoward activities were witnessed…  Nothing to indicate he recognised or was recognised by any of the primary suspects in Peterson’s investigation, nor was there any evidence he was a user... therefore it was determined he was not relevant to this current enquiry.”

“A comprehensive report.”

“And conclusive.”

“The sort of report you would write if you wanted to deflect attention away from a partner in crime.”

Lewis gave James a warning look.  “Also the sort of report you’d have on file to protect a police informant from unwanted scrutiny or being discovered by a corrupt officer, or for a completely innocent party.”

“I know.”  James had picked up the hint.  “Innocent until proven otherwise.”

“Aye,” Lewis huffed softly.

 


	14. 16 January – Thursday – Afternoon

 

Lunch consisted of a panini and a coffee from the small café near the station.  Lewis had insisted he had to stretch his legs and James had needed little persuasion to put another spreadsheet on hold.  The meal had been a quiet affair.  The question of whether Peterson was or wasn’t involved in some way with recent events had unsettled the air between Lewis and James.  Lewis was prepared to give Peterson the benefit of the doubt until something more concrete appeared, while James seemed ready to dig for anything.

The whole idea that one of the senior officers under Innocent’s command could be corrupt sat sourly in Lewis’s stomach.  He wasn’t naïve; corruption wasn’t new and he personally believed there would always be those across all walks of life who could be swayed.  How it could potentially reflect on Innocent was what rankled him the most.  Mind you, if there was any one officer he’d be happy to see leaving Oxford, under a cloud or not, it was DI Alan Peterson.

Lewis’s phone buzzed in his pocket as they walked back towards the station.

_“Robbie, it’s Helen.  I’d like you and James in the incident room in ten minutes if you can make it.  We’ve received a credible sighting of Caulfield.”_

They arrived with two minutes to spare.  Other officers arriving after them quickly filled the remaining spaces.

Laxton gained everyone’s attention.

“We received a call just before 11am from a Mr John Stowe, who’s the publican at Oakley.  He reported seeing Caulfield near an empty farmhouse yesterday evening.  Stowe says Caulfield used to be a semi-regular at his pub, so he was confident about his identification.  He was also surprised to see him in the area.  Thanks to Julie’s quick research, we know that there’s a large parcel of vacant property that backs onto Mr Stowe’s, and there’s a house on it.  A title search shows the property is currently owned by a development company who are waiting on planning approval to redevelop.  They’ve given us the go ahead to enter the property if needed, as anyone on there is trespassing.”

“We’ve no reason to believe Mr Stowe is trying to wind us up; however, there’s another reason we’re taking this call very seriously.  The local officer at Oakley has received a couple of anonymous calls in the last two days about an unfamiliar car being seen in the area, the last call coming in at 11.30am.  That caller identified the car as a silver Audi and gave him a partial registration.  The officer called us when a PNC check on the partial plate produced Evan Graves’s name.”

One surprised gasp stood out over the others.  Lewis turned to see Julie frowning as she quietly sorted through a file on the desk in front of her.  She stopped, traced a line with her finger, and then looked around, perplexed, shaking her head as she caught Lewis’s gaze.

Up front, Laxton continued.  “A Specialist Pro-Active Team is on its way to Oakley to meet with Mr Stowe, and they have orders to secure the property and take anyone found on the premises into custody.  I’ll be heading out with a SOCO team as soon as we’re finished here.  We won’t know for certain if we’ll have Caulfield or Susan Brayden until the operation is complete.  The phones are to continue to be answered and all calls treated with due diligence.  You’ve done excellent work this far; let’s keep it up.”

Laxton hurried past Lewis and out of the room.  Lewis tugged on James’s sleeve, and then walked over to where Julie sat still looking confused and worried.

“Julie?”  He sat beside her, keeping his voice low.

“It can’t be right, sir,” Julie murmured, a tremor in her voice.  “The Audi and Evan Graves.”

“Why do you say that?”

“On Monday, before… DC Murray, sir, Sergeant Hathaway asked me to find out about the solicitor who took Ms Brayden from the custody suite, which turned out to be Evan Graves.  I ran a PNC check on him on Tuesday morning – I have a copy here and there should be one on the file.  The only vehicle registered to him was a 2010 BMW 320i Sport Coupe, black.  There was no Audi, sir.  If I’d seen that I would have brought it to you or DI Laxton immediately.”

“I’ll find the report DI Laxton was referring to.”  James disappeared from Lewis’s side.

“You’re absolutely sure, Julie?”

She nodded emphatically.  “Here’s the report I ran.”  She slid the file in front of him.

Only one vehicle was listed.

James came back with a single sheet of paper.  “Here it is.”

The report clearly listed a BMW and a 2012 silver Audi.

“Can we check the ownership record of the Audi, check previous owners?”

“Yes, sir.”  Julie darted towards a free computer and typed rapidly.  “There.”  She pushed away from the desk letting Lewis and James get close to the screen.  Their faces were a few inches apart.

“No other previous registered owner, not even the original dealer’s details,” James whispered.

James sounded stunned.  Not surprising, Lewis thought.  “That’s bloody convenient,” he muttered.  “The driver of a silver Audi shoots at you and Murray, and now we find an individual connected to this case, a very dead individual, mysteriously turns out to be the owner of a silver Audi.”

James turned his head to face Lewis.  “Either the PNC has been hacked into, which I think would be noticed, or… someone with authorised access deliberately changed the information.”

“Print that off.  We’re going to see Innocent.”

 

* * *

 

Innocent looked at Lewis and James in disbelief.  “Do you realise what you’re implying, Inspector?”

“Yes, ma’am.  Someone’s tampering with this investigation.”  Lewis’s eyes were dark with anger, an expression Innocent had rarely seen.  James was… unreadable.  His ability to hide what he was feeling, to present a neutral front could be an asset, but at times like this, it was also disturbing.

“Have you mentioned this to anyone else?”

“No.”

“Do you have any suspicions?”

The two men exchanged a glance that was more unsettling than James’s poker face.

“Nothing we can prove.  Gut feeling,” Lewis eventually said.

Innocent trusted all her officers, but she also acknowledged that police corruption existed; that her officers were human and, therefore, fallible; and that, at the end of the day, no-one, not even the Chief Constable, was above suspicion if proof of evidence tampering was found.

“A name, please, gentlemen.  It won’t go beyond this office unless absolutely necessary.”

James’s eyes dropped to the floor, though his body and head remained motionless.  Lewis stared at a point over Innocent’s shoulder.

“DI Alan Peterson, ma’am.”

Innocent listened carefully as Lewis outlined Peterson’s apparent evasiveness over providing information in the search for Murray’s killer.  When Lewis then spoke of Peterson’s secrecy over the information he was gathering, Innocent felt a ripple of relief.  Here was something she could address.

“Peterson’s orders to keep this current operation tightly under wraps came directly from the Chief Constable.  It’s part of a nationwide operation.  I suggest to you that Peterson is being–”

“An obsessive prat?” Lewis muttered.

“I was going to say overly zealous, Lewis, but that description will also suffice.  Ask yourself, compared to what he could lose what would Peterson have to gain by attempting to misdirect us to look at Graves?” she asked.

James glanced at Lewis, and Lewis exhaled heavily.  “I can’t think of anything, ma’am.”

“James?”

“DI Peterson’s work here has been primarily involved in clearing the drug trade out of Oxford.  He’s bound to have made enemies: what if someone’s threatening him or someone in his team?”

“That’s an interesting and very plausible possibility.”  Innocent thought quickly.  Marching down to Peterson’s office wasn’t the ideal course of action, not without some form of absolute proof.  “First things first, gentlemen.  Thanks to Julie’s efficiency in printing out everything, we know at least one change has been made.  Lewis, I’d like you to direct Julie to repeat the background checks without referring to old ones.  We can then compare them side by side.  I hope that that’s the only change we’ll find.  Secondly, we need to determine who made the change to the vehicle ownership record.  I’ll prepare a report for the Chief Constable to authorise an immediate investigation under the Data Protection Act.  This has to be by the book every step of the way.  An allegation against a serving police officer cannot, and will not, be taken lightly.”

Neither man moved.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention.  I can assure you everything that can be done will be.  Unless you don’t trust me?”

James’s mask dropped, and he looked horrified at the suggestion.  Lewis’s eyes were wide with disbelief.

Innocent allowed herself a small smile.  “Back to work, gentlemen.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they said soberly, in unison.

“Ma’am,” Robbie queried.  “What’s happened with the issue of information and emails going missing in the custody suite?”

“So far we haven’t found anything untoward.  There are no common officers or shifts involved, and the four missing approvals came from two different magistrates’ clerks.  It’s looking like unrelated cases of sloppy admin work.  But it’s a good point: I’ll add it to the report to the Chief Constable.”

Innocent pushed back against her chair.  “I must admit I’m disappointed that someone in this station isn’t what they appear to be.”

“As am I, ma’am,” Lewis murmured.

Innocent watched them leave.  She would have sworn James had twitched at her last comment.  Thought she believed it was next to impossible, God help them all if James Hathaway ever turned to a life of crime.

 

* * *

 

DI Helen Laxton arrived at the scene perimeter, which had been put in place by the Specialist Pro-Active Team as they secured and isolated the property, to learn the team was ready to enter the property.  Ten tactical officers were being supported by three area cars and four members of the Dog Section.  At that stage, there had been no visible movement but an infrared camera had detected a large heat signature in the front room.  However, only when the agreed signal sounded would Laxton and the two officers with her be allowed to go any further.

On the signal, events moved rapidly.  Running behind one tactical officer along an agreed route, Laxton could hear the calls of the men, and the sharp crack of wood as a door was forced open.  There was more yelling, and at least one voice raised in anger.  A bellow of pain added speed to Laxton’s feet, and they arrived at the house to find a man – cuffed if the angle of his arms was any indication – being dragged from the house by two tactical officers.  He struggled violently, and a black-clad knee was thrust into the back of his leg, forcing him to temporarily stop fighting or fall flat on his face.  Once back on his feet, he again began trying to pull away from the unyielding hands around his arms.  Behind them, one officer guided another through the shattered doorway.  The second man cradled his left arm, which was visibly misshapen. 

As the struggling man was literally dragged past her, Laxton identified him as Caulfield.

“Take him straight in.  Radio ahead for CS Innocent.”

She rushed forward towards the injured man.

“Report, please, sergeant,” she asked the officer helping him.

“Suspect put up a fight, ma’am, with a solid timber kitchen chair.  When that broke–” Laxton winced.  The officer was fortunate to have been struck in the arm.  The alternatives didn’t bear thinking about.  “–he started lashing out.  He got an elbow in the eye for his troubles.  That black eye’ll go nicely with the one he already had.”

 _Already had._   Once the bruising came out, Caulfield would look like a panda.  Laxton was curious to know the story behind his other blackened eye.

“Was there anyone else in the house?”

“We haven’t located anyone, nor seen any sign anyone else was here.”

“And you’ve cleared the building?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did Caulfield say anything?”

“A lot of name-calling, ma’am – I think his mother would be disappointed – but he refuses to say if there is or was anyone else in the house.”

“Any vehicles or other weapons?”

“No vehicle in the immediate vicinity, though there are recent tyre tracks around the back.  No doubt SOCO’ll be able to give you more information once they get started.  There are a few outbuildings on the property, so we’ll be checking those for any signs of recent use.”

“Very good.  Can SOCO go in now?”

“Yes, ma’am, just as soon as our last two men are out.”

With Caulfield off the premises and SOCO in the house, Laxton made her way back to the station.

 

* * *

 

Lewis sat on the edge of the table in the viewing room, just to one side of the two-way glass.  James stood at the other end of the glass and stared at Andrew Caulfield in the interview room.  It had taken three hours since Laxton had rushed out on her way to Oakley to get to this point, as Innocent hadn’t been prepared to move forward until she’d heard the preliminary report from SOCO.  That had come in half an hour ago, and it wasn’t going to help their case.

Caulfield was sat at the table, rubbing his wrists where the handcuffs had dug in.  Even if you didn’t struggle, handcuffs could still leave marks.  Welts like those visible on Caulfield’s wrists were the result of a prolonged and aggressive struggle.  _Serves him bloody right._  Innocent sat opposite Caulfield.  She was watching him intently, saying nothing.  The doors to the interview room and viewing room opened simultaneously.  Laxton entered the interview room, having arrived back at the station minutes earlier, as Peterson walked into the viewing room. 

“Laxton’s back, so what’s the delay?” Peterson asked as he took up a place in front of the centre of the glass.  He also studied Caulfield.

Lewis deliberately avoided looking directly at either Peterson or James, choosing to watch their reflections in the glass instead.  “Caulfield requested a solicitor, but he didn’t want the Duty Solicitor.  Legal Aid should be here soon.”

“Do you think he did it?  Killed Murray?” Peterson asked.  His question was directed at James, but James was focussed on Caulfield.

Lewis answered.  “That’s what we’re here to find out.” 

There was movement on the other side of the glass as a man, who looked close to Lewis’s age, entered the interview room, and took the seat next to Caulfield.  He introduced himself as Rupert Hall.

“I heard the only thing they found at the farmhouse was Caulfield,” Peterson said, taking little notice of the solicitor’s arrival.

“So I’ve heard.”

“What do you make of that?”

“Why don’t we listen to what Caulfield has to say?”

Peterson stepped away from the glass and took up the only chair in the room, leaving Lewis and James at the viewing window.

Innocent didn’t waste any time.

“Mr Caulfield, you’ve been arrested on suspicion of murder and abduction.”

“I haven’t killed anyone, and I haven’t abducted anyone.”

“Mr Caulfield, on Monday afternoon, you were witnessed by two police officers trying to force Ms Susan Brayden into your vehicle, a white Jeep.” 

“I didn’t force anyone to do anything.”

“The officers in question had gone to Ms Brayden’s to bring her back in for questioning in relation to the death of her brother.  They were concerned by what they saw, and were given permission to put you under surveillance.  Subsequently they followed you out of Oxford and into Bernwood Forest.”

“This is bullshit.”

“I’d like to remind you, Mr Caulfield, you are under caution.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Mr Caulfield, this is a recording of the events of Monday afternoon, as witnessed by two police officers.”  Innocent played the first minutes, up to the point where Hathaway and Murray had been given permission to follow.  “Mr Caulfield?”

Hall whispered in Caulfield’s ear, and Caulfield nodded and slumped in the seat.  “Susan was upset after her brother’s death.  She asked me to take her to stay with a friend.”

“Where?”

“Aylesbury.”

“We’ll need a name and address.”

“I think Susan said her name was Gemma; I don’t have an address.”

“You drove her to a friend’s place, but you don’t have an address?  I find that difficult to believe, Mr Caulfield.”

“She didn’t want me to know where she’d be staying – and before you ask, I don’t know why.  She asked me to drop her off near the railway station and her friend would pick her up from there.”

“What time did you arrive at the station?”

“I think it was just after four.”

“I’m curious, Mr Caulfield.”  Laxton leant forward on the desk.  “Wouldn’t it have been quicker to take London Road and cross the M40, rather than going up and through Bernwood Forest?”

“Susan wanted to see where her brother had died and I thought going through the forest would be the quickest way from there.”

Laxton sat back, slightly deflated.  Innocent shuffled her notes.  James looked uncomfortable, and Lewis wanted to call bullshit.  If she’d really wanted to see the place, why hadn’t they stopped there?  At no point in the recording did James or Murray ever indicate Caulfield’s vehicle had stopped or slowed down except for those last fatal moments.  Reflected in the glass, Peterson hadn’t appeared to react at all.

Innocent cleared her throat.

“I’m now going to play another section of the same recording.”

Murray’s voice came out of the speakers.  _“Subject’s vehicle is slowing down…”_ Lewis watched James as the recording played; he’d rely on the video to review Caulfield’s response.  James stared at a fixed spot in the interview room.  His face was perfectly still.

When the sound of gunshots and shattering glass filled the room, Caulfield quailed.  “Stop it!” he shouted.

“Mr Caulfield, it’s all right.”  Rupert Hall spoke quietly and laid a hand on Caulfield’s forearm.  He looked at Innocent.  “I believe an explanation is in order, Chief Superintendent.”

“Mr Caulfield, this audio places you in Bernwood Forest when someone opened fire on two police officers.”

“The bastard shot at us too,” Caulfield whispered.

Reflected in the glass, Peterson sat straighter, and James took a step away from the window.  Lewis stared at Caulfield.  He certainly hadn’t seen that coming.

“You admit to being in the Forest?” Innocent asked.

“I never said I wasn’t.”

“And you were shot at?”

“Twice, I think.  Maybe three times.”

“Was it two or three?”

“I didn’t exactly stop to look.”  It was a low growl, the sound of a cornered, angry dog.

“Tell me what happened.”

“This car was racing up the road towards us.  Susan thought we were going to hit, so I pulled over to let the idiot go around, but he stopped the car and got out, and… Jesus, it was fucking loud.  Susan was screaming at me to get the fuck out of there, so I did.  Then I heard something hitting the car.  It was Susan who said we’d been shot at.”

Hell, Lewis thought, his story’s not only plausible, it makes him a victim as well.  The soft click of the door closing behind him made Lewis turn.  James had left the room.  Lewis chose to stay.  James would be all right for the time being, and Lewis was confident he wouldn’t go too far away.  James might be a chronic over-thinker, but he wasn’t prone to rash or dramatic decisions.

“Did you recognise the shooter?” Innocent asked.

“I’d never seen him before, but…”  Caulfield looked at Hall.

“If you have nothing to hide, Mr Caulfield, I suggest you answer the question,” Hall said.

“I think Susan might have.  She said she had to get away even before the bloke got out.”

Laxton leant forward.  “Can you describe the man?”

“Uh… tall, um, sunglasses, cap – black cap – Susan was pulling my arm, telling me to go, then…  BOOM!  You know?”

“Had you ever seen the car before?”

“No idea.  It was big and silver and expensive.”

“Have you ever owned or had access to a silver Audi A8?”

“Hah!” Caulfield exclaimed.  “Chance’d be a fine thing.”

“Do you know anyone who drives a silver Audi A8?”

“No.”

“Chief Inspector,” Hall interrupted.  “How are these questions relevant?”

“As you would have heard on the tape, DC Murray identified the second vehicle as a silver Audi A8.  A similar vehicle has been reported near Oakley in recent days; in fact, we believe it first appeared around the same time Mr Caulfield may have gone into hiding in the farmhouse.  It’s been reported to local police as a suspicious vehicle.”  Innocent read out the registration.  “Is that familiar to you, Mr Caulfield?”

”No.”  Caulfield looked drained.

“Mr Caulfield, what’s happened to Susan Brayden?”

“What do you mean, what’s happened?”

“We have reason to believe Ms Brayden was at the farmhouse with you, yet you were alone when you were arrested.  Where is Ms Brayden?”

Lewis held his breath.  Innocent was pushing it.  All the evidence gathered so far indicated that only one person had ever been at the house in recent days.  Either Caulfield was telling the truth or, if Susan had been there, any trace of her had been skilfully removed.  There were signs of occupation, which was to be expected, with the dust on the floor of the kitchen, hallway, and front room obviously disturbed.  However, that was easily explained away by a single person pacing between the two rooms.  On top of that, the struggle to get Caulfield out could have easily eradicated any marks in the dust that might have been attributed to another person.

The history of the property wasn’t on the police’s side either.  The house had been left partly furnished when the development company purchased it, and they’d never bothered to clear it out.  Over the period it had sat vacant, the police had been called out three times to move people on.  Each time, the intruders had been detected because they’d tried to light a fire in the fireplace, and the smoke had alerted those around that someone was there.  The company had never prosecuted though, as there had never been any wilful damage, and the house was going to be demolished in time.  That activity and the layers of dust and grime were making the search for evidence, and anything that might yield DNA, next to impossible.

Caulfield leant heavily on the table.  “I presume she’s still in Aylesbury.  Wherever she is, she’s not telling me.”

Peterson quietly walked out of the viewing room.  In the interview room, Hall and Caulfield had both stood.

Lewis had two realisations.  One, for a solicitor who’d walked in cold Hall seemed incredibly well informed if he was trusting Caulfield to speak so freely; and two, Caulfield was going to walk.  Lewis felt sick.  Unless Innocent or Laxton had an ace up their sleeve, they were going to find it next to impossible to find grounds on which to hold Caulfield in custody for even the minimum twenty-four hours.  Even if they did, the man had now presented a plausible, if currently unprovable, story where he had also been in danger.  If they detained him and the press got wind of it, the media coverage certainly wouldn’t be favourable.   _The bastard’s going to walk out of here and possibly disappear._

Innocent had raised a hand.  “Before you leave, Mr Hall, I have do have some more questions for Mr Caulfield which are relevant to the investigation.”

“Very well.”  Hall and Caulfield sat down again.

“Mr Caulfield, if you were a victim in all this, as you’ve indicated, why were you hiding in an abandoned farmhouse?”

“My face was plastered all over the late night news and then the papers.  I was being labelled a murderer, a cop killer.  I turned on the radio to hear one caller saying I should be shot on sight.  What would you have done in my shoes, Chief Superintendent?  Tell me.”

“Why Oakley?  Why so close to Oxford?”

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he whispered.

“Where were you on Monday night?”

Caulfield looked at Hall.

“Again, Mr Caulfield, if you have nothing to hide, I suggest you answer the question,” Hall advised.

Caulfield stared at his hands, which were pressed flat on the table.  “After dropping Susan off, I went looking for a pub.  I was on my fourth or fifth drink and the news came on the telly.  I heard my name, and I heard them say I was wanted for killing someone.  I left the pub, and got in my Jeep, but I knew if I kept driving I’d be pulled over.  So I found a small side road, parked in among the trees, and slept in the Jeep.”

“And the next day?”

“I thought I’d better find somewhere to lie low until things cooled down a bit.  I know Oakley, and I knew about the farmhouse.  I stayed where I was until night fell – no-one came down the road – then I made my way to where you found me.”

“Where’s your Jeep now?” Innocent asked.

“I abandoned it in a wood a couple of miles from Oakley.”

“How did you get to the house?”

“I walked.”

“Through the woods or along the roads?”

“Through the woods.”

“How long did that take you?”

“About an hour and a half.  Some of the paths I knew were overgrown.”

“Paths you knew?”

“I stayed with my mum’s aunt in Oakley for a few years when I was a kid.  I spent a lot of time in the woods.”

Lewis made a mental note to get Julie to chase that up, see if it was true or not.

“How did Ms Brayden feel about trailing through the woods?”

“She wasn’t with me!  I’ve told you: I dropped Susan near the railway station in Aylesbury.  May I ask you a question?”

“Yes.”

“How did you find me?”

“You were seen and recognised near the farmhouse.”

“I see.”

Rupert Hall stood.  “Now, I think we’re finished here for today.  Come along, Mr Caulfield.”

“Not so fast, please, Mr Hall.”  Innocent’s patience was growing thin.  “Mr Caulfield will be held for twenty-four hours on suspicion of abduction and trespass while we complete the investigation of the farmhouse and look for his vehicle.”

“My client has informed you where he took Ms Brayden.”  Hall’s voice had taken on an edge.  “Driving her to see a friend hardly counts as abduction.”

“When we find his vehicle, we will find evidence Ms Brayden was in the Jeep.”

“Of course you will.  Mr Caulfield isn’t denying she was in the vehicle, he’s objecting to your version of events, and quite frankly so am I.”

“Mr Hall–”

“You are not detaining my client, and I will tell you why.”

Lewis's heart sank as the solicitor continued to speak.

 


	15. 16 January – Thursday – Evening/night

 

James was sitting behind his desk in their darkened office.  He’d closed the blinds and switched off the lights.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Lewis said quietly, sitting on the edge of the desk.

“I couldn’t stay there any longer.  Did he…?”

“He’ll leave with the Hall bloke.”

“Just like that.”

“He's been charged with trespass and released on police bail.”

“Police bail?  What about suspicion of abduction?”

Lewis spoke gently.  “Your own words on the recording knocked that on the head.”

James sagged in the seat.  “I never implicitly stated it looked like an abduction,” he muttered dejectedly.

Lewis shook his head.  “You referred to Susan Brayden as an unwilling passenger.  Most kids being taken to school can be defined as unwilling passengers.”

“Shit.”

“Don’t take it to heart, James.  We’ve still got time and…”  Lewis stood and started to pace.  “This whole thing reeks,” he said angrily.  “That Hall bloke knew more than the basics of the case before he walked into that room.  He backed Innocent and Laxton into a corner, spouting one legal precedent after another.  No-one carries that amount of historical legal information in their head – except maybe you – but I doubt even you could have pulled that off without time to double-check all the details.  Here's a curious thing, though: Hall's advised he'll personally supervise Caulfield.”

“What?”

Lewis nodded.  “It's not the first time a do-gooder solicitor has taken charge of their client, but it’s the first time in my experience a Legal Aid solicitor’s done so.”

“And Innocent agreed?”

“Yeah.  He didn’t give her a lot of choice in the end.”

“But Caulfield’ll be put under surveillance though?”

“Putting him under surveillance would mean putting Hall under surveillance, and we don't have grounds.  Hall could cite police harassment, and he'd get away with it too.”

“Fuck.”  There was little Lewis could say to that.  “Do you think he and Susan were shot at, as he claimed?”

“Nothing at this stage to say they weren’t.  We’ll have a better idea once they find the bloody Jeep.”

“If they find it.”

“Unless it’s been torched or pulled apart, it’ll be found.”  _It has to be._   “Get your jacket, man.  There’s beer in the fridge, and we can pick up something to eat on the way back to mine if you’ve an appetite.”

James followed Lewis without another word.

 

* * *

 

“Calm down, mate.  Everything’s under control.”

“Calm down?  Don’t tell me to calm down.  It’s not you potentially in the firing line.”  Peterson paced fretfully around his dining table.

“Why are you so worried?  You did do what I told you to, didn’t you?  Covered your tracks the way I showed you?”

“Yes, but you could have told me what you had planned!  If I’d known you were going to be driving around in–”

“Alan, Alan, Alan, or should I call you–”

“Don’t!”

“I’m beginning to suspect you don’t trust me, Alan.”

“It’s not–”

“Don’t lie to me, Peterson.”  Peterson felt the chill of the words in his bones.  “The sooner they associate that vehicle with someone else and go tootling off in the wrong direction, the sooner you can start to breathe easier.”

And he was gone.

Peterson wasn’t sure he’d ever breathe easy again.

 

* * *

 

Lewis was relieved to have James at his flat.  If he’d had a spare room, he’d have asked James to stay, at least until this was all over.  He still could, but it wouldn’t be appropriate for James to continue sharing his bed, and more than a night or two on Lewis’s couch wouldn’t be the best thing James could do.

James had argued that he couldn’t eat anything, which Lewis could understand, as his own stomach was in knots.  Nevertheless, Lewis also had a duty of care to James.

“No food, no alcohol,” he’d said gently.  He’d taken James’s quiet acceptance as a positive sign.  If James wanted to drink, he would have said so, and it would have been to forget.  However, James desperately wanted to remember.

“It won’t come back; not a word, not a flash of an image.”  James hung his head, his hands lying limply on his lap as he slumped in the couch.

Lewis was beside him in seconds, a hand on his shoulder.  “Don’t try.  Don’t force it.  Isn’t that what the doctor said?  If your memories are going to come back they will, but you can’t make them.  It’s not your fault.”

“If we hadn’t followed him...”

“Don’t torture yourself, James.”

“But I survived.”

“I know, and I’m not saying you’ll have an easy time of it.  It’s the job, James.  It has its risks and every officer knows that.  Stay in this game long enough, and you’ll see everything more than once.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Eh?”

“Nothing.”

There was no point in waiting for James to say anything further.  “I know I might be wasting me breath, James, but don’t bottle this in.  If you can’t talk to me, Laura’ll listen if you need to get anything off your chest.  Hell, you can borrow Monty.  He’s a great listener, especially if you feed him crumbs of cheese.”

James lifted his head to look at Lewis, his lips quirked into a half smile.  “I might just take you up on that.”

 

* * *

 

Caulfield opened the door to his flat and let Graham in.

“You had a fortunate escape this evening.”  Graham settled himself into the other armchair opposite Rupert Hall and accepted the whisky Caulfield poured for him.

“Yeah, well… your bloke Hall here was good, and they bought the shooting story.  That was bloody genius, but… how did you know I’d need it?  I thought I’d be long gone before the police got wind of where I was.”

“I haven’t got to where I am by waiting for things to happen.  You have to be prepared for every eventuality.  At least you have to good sense to follow instructions to the letter, unlike others.  Rupert, I must thank you; exemplary work, as always.”

Hall inclined his head in acknowledgement.  “I only regret I wasn’t available on Monday.  I would have saved everyone a great deal of unpleasantness.”

Graham wiped the rim of his glass with a handkerchief and then put the glass on the coffee table.  The handkerchief disappeared into his jacket pocket.  “Yes, it was rather unfortunate.  If there’s one thing I can’t abide it’s trusted employees disappointing me.  I hope neither of you ever do.”

Caulfield shivered.  He thought of Graves’s body, found in a car boot, and Susan…  Hall had blanched.

“You can rely on us, Mr Hawker,” Hall managed to say.

“Andrew, what happened to the phone you had?”

Caulfield shrank under Graham’s gaze.  “I smashed the shit out of it when they battered the door down.”

“Better than nothing, I suppose.  Time will tell what they get off of it.”

Caulfield noticed that, once again, Graham had kept his gloves on.  The man was nothing if not meticulous in that regard.  Caulfield kept his observations to himself – some things were best left unsaid.  However, it appeared Hall had few such reservations.

“I am curious about something?”  Hall had inched forward in his chair and was now leaning towards Graham like a student eager to please a favoured tutor.  “May I ask a question?”

“Yes.”

Caulfield held his breath.  He wondered how well Hall knew Graham, and if he had picked up the warning in Graham’s voice.

“Your instructions to me were quite specific; how did you know what the police had on Mr Caulfield?”

“None of your concern.”  If words were bullets, Caulfield thought, Hall would be a dead man.  Hall had realised it too, scooting back in the chair hard enough to make it scrape a few inches backwards.

Hawker spun towards Caulfield.  _Shit.  Now he’s pissed off._   “Are you quite certain the police can’t trace Susan to the farmhouse or your movements that afternoon?”

Caulfield nodded.  “Susan didn’t have a phone on her.  She said it went missing from home while she was in custody.  I switched my phone off after I picked up Susan, as instructed, and then Len took it after…  Why was he there?  I would have kept going, stuck to the plan.”  Caulfield regretted he words immediately.

“And led the police straight to our other associates?”  Caulfield waited for the blow that never came.  “We couldn’t let that happen, Andrew.  It was fortunate for everyone Len stopped you.  Not so fortunate for one police officer, given that they could have recognised him, but sometimes in this business you have to make sacrifices.”

Caulfield wanted to know how the police would have known Len.  He also wanted to keep breathing.  “What about the copper who got away?” he asked instead.  “Isn’t he a risk?”

“He has no memory.  He doesn’t even remember following you, let alone the shooting, but, yes, he is still a risk.  Memories can come back.”

“How do you know he can’t remember?  I haven’t heard that on the news.  And come to that, how did Len know I was being followed when I didn’t?”  _Shut up, twat!_  Fuck, he had a big mouth.

“That’s not your concern.  The less you know, the less you can be forced to reveal if the police get their hands on you again.  It’s for your own protection, Andrew.”

_Oh, that’s rich!_ Bugger breathing; Caulfield was a marked man and now he knew it.  “My protection?” he scoffed.  “Someone told the police where I was.  What kind of protection is that?  Apparently, I was seen, but I never left the cottage, as ordered.  So, who gave me up?”

“Ah, now.  That's not quite true, and you know it.”  Graham drained his glass.  “Have you forgotten you went outside while I persuaded dear Susan to come with me?  Not to mention the other two nights.”

Caulfield dropped onto the couch and sipped at his own drink.  It had been dark when Graham arrived, and Caulfield had stood outside the back door.  He couldn’t have been seen.  He’d find out the truth.  Right now, though, Graham was smiling at him in a way that created a cold pit in his stomach.

“I’ve another little job for you, my dear Andrew, but first we need to get you out of here.  You'll come with me now.”

“My car’s in the car park at the back,” Hall said.  “I can take him wherever you need, Mr Hawker.”

“You were followed here, Rupert, and an area car has been keeping an eye on the building and car park.  If you leave, they’ll follow you.  I’m parked in the street behind.  We’ll go out the back way and they’ll be none the wiser.”

“Now?” Caulfield asked.

“I think I’d like to finish my drink first.”

 

* * *

 

James tucked his legs up tight.  Monty had curled up against his belly, as though he knew James wanted some contact.  James had reassured Lewis he’d be fine on the couch.  When James had promised he’d be there in the morning, Lewis had relaxed.  James now understood part of the motivation behind Lewis’s first offer.  He smiled to himself.  It had been a very long time since James had had someone in his life who would push the edge of his or her own comfort zone to protect him.  He thought it might have felt odd; instead, it filled James with a sense of belonging.  In James’s experience, that could have serious repercussions.  He chose not to think about that.

 


	16. 17 January – Friday – Morning

 

It started to sleet as Lewis turned into the car park.  His phone started to ring at the same time.

“James, can you–”

James’s phone buzzed in his pocket.  “Something’s up,” he murmured.  “Hathaway.”

Lewis’s phone stopped.  James lowered his phone without saying another word to the caller.

“Herself wants to see us now.”

“Now, now?”

A short, sharp nod.  “As in ideally five minutes ago.”

 

**********

 

“Lewis, James.  Take a seat.”  Innocent waited until they were both settled.  DI Laxton sat in the third chair.  “We’ve received a call from DI Larter at Aylesbury.  Yesterday afternoon, a couple of teenagers larking around found a woman’s body in a burnt-out Vauxhall Corsa in a quarry north of the town.  She’s been identified as Susan Brayden.”

“Bloody hell.”  Lewis rubbed his face in frustration.  James groaned softly.  Laxton looked grim.

“There was nothing accidental about this; it’s a clear case of arson.  The car was reported stolen on Tuesday morning but it’s believed the fire wasn’t set until Wednesday night.  Police checked with teachers who had taken a school group abseiling in the quarry on Wednesday and the car wasn’t there then.  Aylesbury have emailed through their preliminary report, and are sending everything they have down to us as soon as their pathologist has completed the post mortem.”

“How was she identified?”  Lewis hoped they could be wrong.  If they could get her into an interview room, he believed Susan Brayden was their best chance of finding out what happened to both her brother and Paul Murray.

“Fingerprints,” Innocent replied.  “Then they cross referenced with dental records.”

“How did they get prints if she was burnt?” Laxton asked.

“I asked the same question.”  Innocent referred to the paper in her hand.  “Although the interior of the car was mostly sheltered, the heat eventually blew out the windows, and the sleet and rain were sufficient to douse the worst of the fire.  Despite the use of an accelerant, one arm was practically untouched.”

“Any indication of the cause of death?”  Lewis leant forward in his seat.

“It would appear to be a single gunshot wound to the head.  No exit wound, so the bullet’s still inside the skull.”

“Ballistics?”

“Hopefully we’ll have all that this afternoon,” Innocent replied.  “I’ve asked for the post-mortem report and the body to be delivered to Dr Hobson to confirm the findings for our records.  I’ve also asked DI Larter to look into Caulfield’s story about dropping her off, even if it means sending down all the CCTV footage from around the railway station for the time in question.”

“What about Caulfield?”

“Four tactical officers from the Pro-Active Team have been assigned to bring him in along with his solicitor.”

“How do we even know he’s still at the flat?” James asked.

Innocent looked hopeful.  “I might not have been able to put Caulfield under formal surveillance, but I could order an area car to pay particular attention to one building and the surrounding streets.  It wasn’t the ideal solution, but under the circumstances it was better than nothing.”  She retrieved another document.  “Two cars covered the whole night.  The first followed Hall and Caulfield to Caulfield’s building.  There’s a small car park around the back where Hall left his vehicle.  During the night, they monitored both the car and the lights in Caulfield’s flat.  The lights went out around midnight, and as far as they can tell, Hall’s car never left the car park and is still there.”

“So we’ll have him?” Lewis didn’t know whether to feel relieved or murderous.  They couldn’t have saved Susan, but seeing that bastard off the street was going to help Lewis sleep easier.

“I hope so.  He’s already proven himself to be a slippery customer, so I won’t count my chickens before they’ve hatched.”

“I’ll bet they’re both probably feeling pretty smug too,” Lewis muttered.

“Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall,” James murmured.

Innocent turned to Lewis.  “Robbie, Helen’s going back out to Oakley to oversee the second sweep of the farmhouse and the search for Caulfield’s Jeep, so I’d like you to sit in on Caulfield’s interview, if you feel up to it.”

“You can rely on me, ma’am.”

 

**********

 

Lewis and James rushed back to Innocent’s office fifteen minutes later.  Laxton had left for Oakley ten minutes earlier.

A forced entry had been made into Caulfield’s flat.  It was empty.  An empty bottle of whisky stood on the sink and three washed glasses on the draining board.  The bed was neatly made.  The ground underneath Hall’s car was dry, confirming it hadn’t been moved all night.  Hall and Caulfield had vanished.

“How in the hell did they manage that?”  Innocent was on her feet, leaning on her desk.  Lewis sat bent over in the chair with his elbows digging into his thighs.  James’s head was bowed.

The hollow voice of the lead officer on the scene in Caulfield’s flat came through the speakerphone.

“There’s a rear entrance to the building leading to the car park, and a narrow lane which runs from the car park to the next street.  It’s only wide enough for pedestrian traffic, and you can’t see it until you’re practically on top of it; we didn’t see it until another resident pointed it out.  They could have walked out that way and the patrols would have been none the wiser.”

“And anyone could have walked in,” James said.  “Three glasses.  Who else was in that flat?”

“Sergeant,” Innocent ordered, “call in a SOCO team; have them go over the place thoroughly for prints and anything which might yield DNA.  They can call me if they want any authorisations.  And I want surveillance on the flat in case anyone returns to it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She flicked the button to terminate the call.

“Orders, ma’am?” Lewis asked.

“I want to know everything there is to know about Rupert-bloody-Hall: where he’s from, where he lives, where he might go.  He’s going to need one hell of a solicitor himself when I’m through with him.”

 

* * *

 

Laxton walked away from the farmhouse fuming.  The SOCO team had been over everything twice and had been unable to find any indication Susan Brayden had ever been there.

When Susan’s body had turned up in Aylesbury, Laxton had feared this would be the outcome, yet she couldn’t believe Caulfield’s story about dropping her off.  If Laura Hobson could narrow down the time of death, Laxton felt they could start to piece together a stronger timeline of events and determine if Caulfield could have been where he said he was.  For the moment though, she was left with the unpalatable conclusion that Caulfield had been telling the truth.

Laxton returned to her car and headed into Oakley to get an update on the search for Caulfield’s Jeep.  Volunteers had been drawn from surrounding police stations, as well as every available officer from the station and PCSOs.  The Forestry Commission had provided current and historical maps showing the access roads and known walking trails through the woods around Oakley.  Using the position of the farmhouse and Caulfield’s statement, the only reference point they had at this stage, a probable search area had been mapped out, and the search was well underway.

“I’m sorry, Inspector, nothing’s been reported so far.”  The tactical sergeant then looked hopeful.  “However, the National Police Air Support Service has a helicopter in the air now, and it should be over the site in the next ten minutes.”

 

* * *

 

“You have got to be joking!”  The disbelief in James’s raised voice startled Lewis, and caused every head in the area outside their office to swivel in James’s direction.  James jammed the phone between his ear and shoulder and scribbled frantically in his notebook.  “How in blazes did he get past the front desk?” he muttered.

Lewis walked around behind James and looked over his shoulder.  James’s cursive writing wasn’t the easiest to read at the best of times – with its loops and tall letters it always made Lewis think of quills and ink, which was daft – and was why James tended to print in block capitals on any forms.  The frustrated scrawl on the page Lewis was looking at was almost illegible until James turned the notebook slightly.

 _Legal Aid never heard of Hall._ Lewis had known something wasn’t right about the bloke, but once someone was past the front desk there was an almost automatic acceptance of his or her right to be there.

James ended the call and turned around with an exasperated huff.  “Legal Aid does not have, nor ever have had, anyone by the name of Rupert Hall on staff in any capacity.”

“He would have had to show some form of identification to be admitted past the front desk, never mind into the interview room; all solicitors do, except the duty solicitor.  If the duty officer was told Innocent was expecting someone from Legal Aid, they shouldn’t have let anyone else through.”

“That’s the next place I’m checking.”

Lewis grabbed James’s arm as he made for the door.

“I’ll go down and see what record they kept.”  Lewis waved at James’s computer.  “You see what you can find on him.  You’ll be faster than me.”

**********

The duty officer cued up the CCTV footage to the time Hall would have arrived at the station.  Without audio, it was difficult to know what was being said, though Lewis could take a fair guess at parts of the duty officer’s side of the conversation.  Lewis watched as the officer checked the log, which would have listed who was expected, then inspected the card Hall presented.  The distance between the camera and the desk meant the details were blurred, but it could have been a Legal Aid identification card.

“Here’s the log, sir.”  The duty officer had marked the entry with a sticky note.  Lewis jotted down the details.  _See what James can do with that._   Lewis tugged at his ear.  Everything appeared above board here, and although various officers had been picked up coming and going, Peterson had been nowhere in sight on the footage – not that that put Lewis’s mind at ease.

He headed back to the office and discovered James pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed.

“Have you got a headache?” Lewis asked cautiously.  James had displayed no after-effects from Monday, and Lewis had started to relax, able to convince himself all was well.

James looked up but continued to pinch his nose.  “No.  Frustrated.  I’ve tried over a dozen searches and can’t come up with anything on Rupert Hall.  I can’t even find out if he’s even a solicitor.”

“Try this.”  Lewis passed over the logbook details.  “It looks like a valid registration number, but all you’d have to do is change one number or character.”

James typed quickly.  He briefly looked hopeful, and then his shoulders fell.

“What is it?”

James sighed.  “It’s a valid ID – for a Mrs Joan Imeson, Solicitor, who resigned from Legal Aid in 2012.”

“Does that come under identity theft, theft, or fraud?  Whichever, I think it’s now safe to assume he is a part of whatever Caulfield is involved in.”

James pushed hard against the back of his chair.  “Are we making a mistake in assuming he’s a qualified solicitor?  Could he simply be a really good con artist?”

“It is a possibility.”  Lewis dropped back against his own desk.  “But if this is a highly organised, well-resourced group, and that’s looking more and more likely with each twist this case takes, they would have chosen someone who had some sort of legal background.  They wouldn’t want to get caught on the back foot or tripped up by a simple mistake.”

“Oh,” James said.  “I forgot to tell you: Julie dropped in to say a new all ports warning has been issued for Caulfield and Hall.  They have to turn up somewhere.”

 


	17. 17 January – Friday – Afternoon

 

Under slightly different circumstances, Laxton would have leapt in the air with a cry of triumph.  The Air Support helicopter had located what looked like a white four-wheel drive in the centre of a dense patch of forest north-west of Oakley, just over a mile from the farmhouse, and a small team of officers were going in on foot.  The Forestry Service map of the area showed a disused service track, which ran through the centre of the area, and from the air a crooked line, ran roughly southeast towards the vacant land behind the farmhouse.

Any joy at the discovery was tempered by the reality of the situation.  If it was the Jeep, SOCO would have to make a thorough examination of the road in and the ground around the Jeep before any attempt could be made to bring the vehicle in for forensic examination.  The process of extracting the Jeep itself could be problematic, and Laxton honestly couldn’t see them getting anything useful or otherwise for at least twenty-four hours, if there was anything to be found at all.  Laxton couldn’t see Caulfield giving up the location of the Jeep as easily as he had if there was anything in it that could tie him to a crime.  That, coupled with Susan Brayden’s death, had left her feeling less than optimistic.

 

**********

 

Instead of waiting around uselessly for any updates on the vehicle, Laxton made her way to the pub to interview John Stowe, the publican who’d reported the sighting of Caulfield.

“How well did you know Andrew Caulfield, Mr Stowe?”

“Not that well.  He had family around here years ago and was at school with my youngest brother for a couple years.  Then he turned up again about four, five years ago.  He used to drop into the pub about once a month, and then dropped off the radar again.”

“You called the hotline on Thursday; can you tell me about that?”

“I’d first seen him when I was locking up around midnight on Monday.  He was driving a flashy white four-wheel drive – not bad for a bloke who rarely had more than a fiver in his pocket when he first came back.  Then his photo was all over the front of paper the next day.”

“Why didn’t you call then?”

“Didn’t know where he’d gone, did I?  The paper mentioned the Jeep, so I didn’t think I had anything to offer.”

“What happened to make you call us on Thursday?”

“I saw him again on the Wednesday night.”

“At the farmhouse?”

Stowe nodded.  “It was a bit after seven.  I’d taken my dogs out for their walk – there’s a Forestry road that runs along the boundary between my property and the old farm, and the dogs go mad racing up and down.  I saw a light in the house.  At first, I thought it might have been kids or vagrants again, until I saw the car.  The old driveway loops around the house, and there was this dark coloured saloon around the back.  The door opened and Caulfield and some other bloke came out – I didn’t get a decent look at him, but Caulfield I recognised straight away.  Only saw them and a bit of the car ‘cause of the light from the open door.  I took off before they saw me.”

“Why didn’t you call us on Wednesday night?”

“I was going to, but one of the dogs started throwing up when we got back to the house so I rushed him to the vet.  It was late when we got home.”

“Is your dog okay?”

“Yeah.  Idiot had eaten something rotten he’d found in the bushes.”

Laxton nodded in understanding.  She’d had Labrador that would eat anything and everything.  “You said the car you saw was dark coloured?”  Stowe nodded.  “Could it have been dark green?”

“I couldn’t say.  Given the light it could have been green, dark blue, or black.”

“Thank you, Mr Stowe.”

“I’m only sorry I can’t give you more.  I read the young fella that was killed was getting married; not bloody right that is.”

“Mr Stowe, you’ve been a great help.”  Caulfield had gone to the farmhouse on Monday, not Tuesday as he’d claimed.  One lie down; the rest would soon follow.  “One more thing: do you know anything about a silver Audi, an A8, which has been reported in the area?”

Stowe scratched his chin.  “I wouldn’t know an A8 from any other Audi.  There are a few Audis around here, but none silver as far as I can recall.  Where’s it been seen?”

Uneasiness prickled at the back of Laxton’s mind.  “The calls were a little vague on the exact location.  We wondered if it was connected to Caulfield, and if it had been seen around the farmhouse.”

“Sorry.  I don’t know any more than what I’ve told you.”

Laxton head back to her car slowly.  She’d felt certain Stowe would have seen the Audi if it was connected to Caulfield’s appearance in the farmhouse.  Was it just a coincidence the partial plate matched Graves’s records, and if the car had been around Oakley, why had only one person reported it?  Was someone pointing a finger, or muddying the waters?  Laxton let out a frustrated huff.  It would be nice to get an answer to a question on this case without multiple questions being raised as a result.

 

* * *

 

Lewis’s shoulders sagged.  His cheek rested against the heel of his hand, pushing one eye closed.  James was hunched forward over his keyboard, poking at the keys with one finger.

It had been a bloody long day.

Caulfield and Hall had disappeared without a trace, and they were back where they’d been on Tuesday morning, but with two additional bodies in the morgue.  A lack of CCTV on Caulfield’s road or the one the lane opened onto was definitely a hindrance.  There was no way of knowing for certain if Caulfield had simply walked away from the flat, or if someone else had arrived and left while the area cars had been elsewhere, taking Caulfield and Hall with them.  They knew from the third glass in Caulfield’s flat that another person had been there.

The high point of the day had been when Laxton had called to say Caulfield’s Jeep had been located.

“He’d driven it in along a partially overgrown track until he couldn’t go any further.  It would have been a squeeze getting out via the driver’s door, but it’s obvious where he’s forced the door open.  There’s considerable damage to the door.  An attempt’s going to be made to extract it tomorrow to avoid any further damage to the exterior.”  She then detailed John Stowe’s statement.  “Caulfield’s been caught in a lie.  The noose is tightening!” 

Laxton had gone very quiet when Lewis had then told her Caulfield had slipped away, reading out the scene report.  Then the questions came.

“Why didn’t someone call me earlier?”

“James and I both tried, as did Innocent.  You must have been in a dead spot.”

“They’ve done a door-to-door through the building?”

“Yes, and they’ve accounted for every vehicle in the car park and on the street.  No-one saw or heard anything out of the ordinary.”

“DNA, fingerprints?”

“So far they’ve identified Caulfield’s and a second set of unknowns, most likely Hall’s.”

“So who had the third glass?”

“No idea at this stage.”

“Shit!”

Lewis didn’t tell her Innocent had directed James to determine exactly where Alan Peterson had been during the evening.  A GPS trace on his phone had him within 50 metres of his home all evening until he’d left for work that morning.  Innocent had been relieved.  Lewis’s own feelings were mixed; all Peterson had to do was walk out of the door without his phone.

Laxton huffed.  “What about Caulfield’s phone?  Was there anything we can use against the bastard when we find him?”

“No.”

“NO?”  Lewis jerked the phone away from his ear as she swore creatively.  “What _was_ on it?”

“The phone was useless.  It looked as though Caulfield had attempted to destroy it when the tactical team stormed the building, and in the ensuing melee, it was probably trampled even more.  The SIM card appeared intact, but forensics hasn’t been able to get anything from it.”

“Anything from Larter in Aylesbury?”

“Nothing on CCTV yet, though he’s mentioned there are a number of places nearby not covered by CCTV where a drop-off and pick up could have taken place.  He’s got a team canvassing pubs within a five kilometre radius of the station – we sent through photos of Caulfield and Susan – but again, nothing so far.”  Laxton sighed.  “We’ll find the bastard, Helen.”

“Yeah.  Are you going to the memorial drinks for Paul?”

“We’re heading off around five; maybe see you there?”

“Sure.  I’ll be heading back to the station shortly,” she had replied sadly.

 

**********

 

Murray’s memorial was held in the pub a short walk from the station.  In the end, Lewis and James stayed for less than an hour. 

Innocent had made a small speech.  Laxton had stood next to Lewis during the formalities before wandering off to talk to Hooper.  On Lewis’s other side, James had fidgeted uncomfortably as all eyes had turned to him on more than one occasion. 

“They don’t blame you, James.”  Lewis had tried to reassure him.  “It’s only… it’s hard to believe you got away unharmed.”

“Bet at least one person thinks I ran and left Murray.”

The very idea riled Lewis.  “If they do, it’s because they don’t know you,” he growled.  “You’re not the kind of bloke who’d abandon anyone by choice, no matter what danger there was to you.  I know that.  Innocent knows it, too.”

“Thank you, sir,” James murmured.

“How are you two holding up?”  Innocent approached them from James’s side.

“I was just thinking of heading back to the station.”  James stared at his feet.

“What on earth for, James?”  Innocent stepped in front of him.

“We’re still no closer to finding out what happened to Carl Brayden, ma’am.”

“And you won’t get any closer if you collapse at your desk.  You might be able to fool yourself, James Hathaway, but you need to get some rest.  What can be done is being done, and the Chief Constable’s authorised the investigation into that other little matter.  A specialist from Cyber Crime at the Met will be here on Monday.”

“That’s good to know.  Thank you, ma’am,” Lewis replied.

“Thank me by getting some rest.  Please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  Lewis waited until Innocent was talking to another officer.  “Do you want to head off?” he asked James.

“Yeah.  I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold my tongue the next time someone stares at me, and I don’t want to dishonour Murray’s memory.”

They had to go back to the station to get Lewis’s car, and Lewis had to steer James past the office.

“You heard Innocent.  Now, pub dinner or takeaway?”

James wrinkled his nose.  “Can we go to my place?  There’s food that will go to waste if I don’t use it–”

James’s head jerked up, and Lewis realised DC Hooper was standing in a doorway only few feet away.  _That man’s turned into a bit of a lurker in recent days._   “Hooper?  I thought you were at the memorial?”

“I had to come back to check something… but I’m glad I’ve bumped into you.”  He approached them, stopped in front of James, and pushed his shoulders back, straightening himself to his full height.  “Sergeant Hathaway, I owe you an apology.  I was angry with you for being here when young Paul had been…  It was wrong of me, and unprofessional.”

James didn’t miss a beat.  “Thank you, Hooper.  I do understand.”

“Thank you.  Right, I’d best get back to the pub.  Have a good evening, sirs.”

Lewis watched Hooper amble slowly down the corridor.  It was a sad sight. 

“That was unexpected,” James remarked softly.

Lewis squeezed James’s shoulder.  “Trying times bring out different things in people.  C’mon, let’s get out of here before Innocent comes back, finds us, and chases us out.”

 

**********

 

James put the pasta bake in the oven.  They’d used up every vegetable in the crisper drawer that James thought suitable and still edible.  James started to fill the sink.

“Washing up already?”  Lewis gave him a playful nudge.

“If I get these dishes done, then all I’ll have to do after dinner is the plates and cutlery.”

“You have a rest, like Innocent wants.  I’ll get these,” Lewis offered.  For a moment, he thought James was going to argue.

James handed him the dishcloth with a thankful smile.  “Just going to duck out for the usual first.”

“You should give those things up.  You’re going to catch your death of cold from going out in this weather.”

James chuckled as he grabbed his coat, and then the door clunked shut behind him.

Lewis began to stack the dishes in the now full sink.  He heard a car backfire three times followed by a heavy thud against the door.  Then came a startling screech of car tyres from directly outside.

_Cars don’t usually backfire three times in quick succession._

Lewis went cold.  The plate in his hand crashed to the floor and he ran to the door to see what was going on.  He opened the door and James slumped inward with it, his long body stretched out over the step, his head and shoulders crumpled against the door itself.  A long streak of red rose wetly from behind James’s shoulder, and one hand lay against his chest.  Underneath James’s fingers, a scarlet bloom spread across his ivory shirt.  In the distance, Lewis could hear someone yelling, their words indistinct but frightened.  Lewis dropped to his knees.  He pressed one large hand over James’s and pushed down, willing the misshapen rose on James’s chest to stop growing, while the other hand searched fruitlessly for his phone which he remembered was in his jacket pocket.  _I won’t leave you, James._

“I’m sorry,” James gasped, as his body went suddenly and completely still, and he stared through blank eyes.  Lewis scooped James into his arms with a pained howl…

…and he was hugging himself.  James was gone.

 


	18. 17 January – Friday – Night

 

Lewis was still kneeling on James’s front step when an area car arrived, closely followed by an ambulance.  He heard and recognised the sirens.  Then there were feet and legs and voices around him.

“Inspector Lewis?”

He should have known the voice but it didn’t register.

“Inspector Lewis?”  A hand came to rest on his shoulder.  It was small.  It wasn’t James’s touch.  “Sir, a call came in from a neighbour across the street.  She heard what she thought were gunshots then a car racing off up the road.  When she got to the window, she said she saw someone collapse.  The address was flagged as Sergeant Hathaway’s; is he here with you, sir?”

Lewis was desperately confused and couldn’t speak, wouldn’t speak for fear of sounding mad.  He’d seen James, held James.  But James wasn’t here.  Larger hands reached under his arms and cupped his elbows and Lewis found himself slowly rising.  His legs shook so much he was afraid if they let go of him he would crash to the ground.

“You don’t appear to be hurt, sir, but we’d better check you out.”  Lewis turned in the direction of the new voice.  It was a paramedic.  “Come with us, sir.  SOCO are going to need the front step for a while.  Careful now, watch out for the ice on the step.  You wouldn’t want to slip.”

Lewis let himself be led toward the ambulance.  From where he was sat in the back, he could see James’s front door.  _Three backfires.  Three shots._   Two scars on the door showed where two bullets had embedded themselves, but where was the third?  Lewis squeezed his eyes shut and opened them, blinking rapidly.  Those two marks were the only marks on the door.  No blood marred the white paint, or the stone step as far as he could see.  Lewis pulled at the front of his shirt.  It was clean.  Lewis had held James’s bloodied body to his chest.  There should have been something.

Nothing made sense.

Raised voices drew his attention.  CS Jean Innocent ducked under the crime scene tape and approached James’s door.  Lewis watched as she took charge.  When two uniformed officers and a SOCO hastily entered James’s flat, he could only imagine what she’d said.

More vehicles were arriving.  Peterson arrived.  Grainger and Hooper were behind him.  The hum of voices gradually rose.  Doors slammed, and orders were barked out.  Beyond the tape, something flashed.  Lewis never took his eyes off Innocent, as she made her way over to him.

“Robbie.”

“Ma’am.”  Lewis didn’t recognise his own voice.

“Were you injured?”

“No, ma’am.  I heard the shots, came outside.”  _Found James dying on his own front step._

Yet another car arrived.

Innocent placed a hand on Lewis’s arm.  “Robbie, this is James’s flat.  Where’s James?” she asked gently.

“He’s… ah… he went out for… I don’t know…” _He disappeared in my arms, ma’am._

Innocent’s eyes were filled with compassion.  “I’m sorry, you’ve had a shock; this can wait.  I assume James had his phone on him?”

“If it’s not in the flat, yes, he’ll have it.”  _Wherever the hell he is._

Innocent nodded.  “I’ll find out, see if I can’t get the duty sergeant to track him down somehow.”

Lewis nodded mutely.

 

**********

 

Lewis said nothing when SOCO brought two evidence bags over to Innocent.  James’s phone and his wallet.

“We found these in the pocket of a suit jacket hung over a dining chair, ma’am.”

“They’re James’s,” Lewis murmured.

“Robbie, is it like James to go anywhere without these?”

 _Not bloody likely._ “He took his coat when he went out… maybe–”

James had appeared around the corner, walking rapidly towards the flat.  He looked exactly as he had when he’d walked out the door.  His coat hung open, and even at that distance, Lewis could see the pale ivory of James’s shirt was unmarked.  James came to a sudden stop as he met Lewis’s gaze, swaying as he did so.  Something fell from James’s hands, and he ran towards Lewis, dodging around a PC and under the blue and white tape.  Lewis closed his eyes.  It wasn’t James.  It couldn’t be James.  He’d seen.

Warm fingers touched his face, then his chest, arms, and hands.

“What happened?”  James’s fear and concern washed over Lewis.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”  Innocent.  “Where have you been, James?”

Lewis’s eyes snapped open.  Innocent stood with her arms folded across her chest looking impatiently at James.  James was here.  James was real.

As Lewis took in the sight of James’s shocked features, all the colour drained from his world, and darkness closed in.

 

**********

 

Lewis was aware of the voices first.  Soft murmurs surrounding him.  The sounds were familiar and gave Lewis a feeling of belonging and security.  Strong arms held him.  Fingers gently stroked his arm.  Val?  No, it couldn’t be Val.

“Sir?” came a soft whisper in his ear.  “Robbie?”

 _James.  James?_   Lewis’s eyes flickered open and he found himself staring at James’s worried face.

“James?”

“That’s me.”  A hopeful smile flitted across James’s mouth.

Lewis looked around.  He was still in the back of an ambulance, but now he was lying against James who was seated beside him.  They were James’s arms around him.  But that couldn’t be.  “What happened,” he mumbled.

“You fainted,” James said gently.  “Probably delayed shock.  Innocent’s brought me up to speed, though I suspect I’m in for a grilling later.”

“Where did you go?”

For an instant, James looked shocked.  Then his concern returned.  “I went to the shop for cigarettes; I told you.”

“You said you were going out for a smoke.”

“I said I was going out for the usual – to the shop.”

“Without your wallet?  It was in the flat, in your jacket.”

James ducked his head.  “I thought it was in my coat.  Fortunately the owner knows me well, so he gave me credit.”

Lewis grasped James’s hand, and closed his eyes.  James was here, very real, and very, very alive.  Lewis knew he should be grateful, but questions and images swirled in his head.

“I’m sorry,” James said quietly.  “I should have been clearer.  Not that I expected anyone would shoot at my home.”

“How far away is this shop you went to?”  Peterson stepped up to the ambulance.  Behind him, Innocent scowled fiercely.

Lewis felt James tense.

“It’s about a thirty minute round trip.”

“And you didn’t drive?”

“I’m not permitted to at present.”

“You’ll be on the shop’s CCTV?”

“They don’t have video surveillance.  I’ve told them time and again to get it, but I can’t force them to comply.”

“Is that something you do often?”  Peterson threw his shoulders back.  “Leave a guest in your home while you go wandering?”

James’s fingers tightened around Lewis’s hand.  “I wasn’t wandering.”

Lewis held up his free hand to stop whatever Peterson was going to ask next.  He struggled to sit up, managing when James released his hand and gently pushed him upright.  “It’s not the first time James has nipped up the road for smokes.  He’s even done it when he’s been at my place.  It’s not a crime.”  Lewis could almost let himself believe that was exactly what had happened.  He wanted desperately to believe that was what had happened.  Except for the cold fact James had died – and vanished – in his arms.  Lewis hadn’t imagined it.  It hadn’t been a hallucination or a dream.

Peterson ignored Lewis, his eyes never leaving James.  “If it’s a half hour errand, why did it take you nearly an hour to get back here?”

“Alan, that’s quite enough.”  Innocent stepped in, her tone daring Peterson to challenge her authority.

“Yes, ma’am.”  Peterson stepped to the side as Innocent moved closer to James.

“However, it is a fair question, James,” she said quietly.

“There are a number of road blocks on the surrounding streets, and police are stopping people and asking questions; it slowed me down.”

Peterson huffed, and walked away.  Lewis, James, and Innocent watched as he slipped under the crime scene tape and joined Hooper and Grainger, who were with the senior SOCO.

“Do we think this… incident… could be connected to the Braydens and Murray’s murder?” Innocent asked.  “Seems a bit coincidental otherwise.”

“I think the ballistics will give us a better idea, ma’am,” James said.  “But I don’t think it’s an unreasonable assumption to make.”

Innocent touched Lewis lightly on the shoulder.  “You’ll both have to make formal statements, however, I think they can wait until tomorrow when you’ve both had a chance to rest; and we’ll need to look into either relocating you to a safe house or assigning police protection for you in your own homes.  In the meantime, you’ll both be coming back to mine, unless you have any strong objections.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”  James leant against the inside wall of the ambulance. 

Lewis nodded.  “No objections, ma’am.”  He felt being somewhere neutral was probably the best thing for both him and James.

Innocent relaxed slightly.  “I’m very glad you’re both unharmed.”

 

**********

 

Innocent gave James time to pack an overnight bag, before they drove to Lewis’s to let him do the same.  Lewis sat in the back seat, having offered James and his long legs the front with its greater legroom, and rested his head against the window.  The ride to Innocent’s was made in silence.  Whatever Innocent thought about the lack of conversation, if anything, she kept to herself.

Chris, Innocent’s son, opened the front door as the car pulled up.

“I’m afraid I’ve only one spare bedroom, but I can set up a folding bed in the study,” Innocent offered.  “It’ll be a little cramped, but you’ll have some privacy.”  As she led Lewis and James up the stairs, Lewis noted that she still wore her coat and her handbag hung from shoulder.  Chris followed behind.

“S’all right, mum,” Chris said.  “Sergeant Hathaway can have my bed; I’ll be fine on the couch.”

James protested.  “I wouldn’t want to put–”

“That’s settled then.”  Innocent pointed towards a door.  “James, you’re in there; Robbie, next door along.  Thanks, love.”  She kissed Chris’s cheek.  “Get yourselves settled, gentlemen, and then I think stiff drinks all around are in order.  Oh, James.”  Innocent opened her handbag.  “You dropped these earlier.  I think you might need them.”  She handed him two packets of cigarettes.

 

* * *

 

James wasn’t at all surprised when Lewis quietly disappeared back upstairs after one drink.  He had more than a fair idea of the questions that would be whirling around Lewis’s head.

James had questions of his own on other matters.  There had been no mention of Mr Innocent since he and Lewis had arrived, yet James’s trained eye had noticed signs of a man’s presence throughout the house, and not only Chris’s.  There were only a few photographs on display, but all were recent, and several featured an older, heavier-set version of Chris.  Who was this man, and why did he never seem to be around?  James wondered how many other officers had ever sat in this front room and asked themselves the same questions.

Shortly after Lewis had left, Innocent excused herself.  James saw her give Chris a curious glance, which Chris responded to with a nod.  She didn’t expect Chris to question him, surely.

Chris refilled their glasses.  From upstairs came the sound of a door closing, and then running water.

“Dad’s in New York on business,” Chris said, apropos of nothing.

“I… ah,” James stammered.  So was that what the look was about?  James concluded he hadn’t been very discreet in making his observations.

Chris seemingly read his mind again.  “Mum knows people think ‘Mr Innocent’ is a bit of a fiction.  Basically, work takes him away from home most of the time.  Mum doesn’t it want it about the station because she’s certain it would only start wilder rumours.  She must implicitly trust you and Inspector Lewis if she wanted both of you to know.”

“Inspector Lewis?”

“I heard Mum telling him when you went out the back for a cigarette earlier.  She probably expected he’d tell you, but then he went upstairs, so...”

James swirled the whisky in his glass and concentrating on the colour changing in the light.  “Must be hard for you – both of you.”

Chris shrugged.  “We’ve learnt to live with it, and Mum and Dad make it work.  If I can get my shit together half as well as they have, I’ll be pretty happy.”

They sat quietly for a while.  James let his mind drift back over all that had happened in a few short hours.  He thought of Innocent’s face when Peterson had started to interrogate him, and a surprised laugh escaped.

Chris gave an enquiring glance.

“I, ah…”  _Oh, what the hell._   “Tonight…”  He quickly summarised Peterson’s actions without naming him.  “Innocent– your mum stopped him dead.  She can be pretty fierce when she wants to be.”

“You have no idea.”  Chris chuckled.  “Mum’s protective of everyone that works in _her_ nick to one degree or another, but occasionally she takes it very personally.  Watching her here tonight – she was in full protective-mother mode.  She must really like you and Inspector Lewis.”

“She says we give her migraines.”

Chris laughed softly.  “She says the same thing about me and dad.”

 


	19. 18 January – Saturday

 

Lewis lay still and kept his eyes closed.  He could hear movement coming from beyond the bedroom wall.  James must be up already.  Lewis listened for the sound of the kettle.  It was the weekend.  James would make coffee and, if Lewis were lucky, the smell of bacon would start to waft through.

Lewis frowned.  He shouldn’t be able to hear the woman who lived down stairs.  And who was that with her?  She never let anyone in.  Lewis threw the covers back, sat up, and opened his eyes properly.  This wasn’t his bedroom.

He blinked twice and the previous night rushed violently back at him, tearing at him with visions of James, bloodied and broken.  Christ.  The very air pressed in around him and he struggled to breathe.  James had been shot and died, yet James was very much alive.

Lewis lay back down, curling up on his side, and tried in vain to put the pieces together.  That’s what he’d attempted to do when he’d first gone to bed, but he must have fallen asleep.  He hadn’t been drunk, and he was certain he hadn’t imagined everything.  The bullets in James’s door had been very real – no-one had denied that – and there _had_ been blood on the door, James’s blood, or had Lewis, for God knows what reason, only imagined it?  Maybe he was going to get out of bed and find out it had all been nothing more than the after-effect of a bad takeaway, that he was in his own flat and not lying in Innocent’s spare room.Lewis was certain of what he’d seen.  James was alive and in this house, and by all the rules and laws Lewis knew, that could not be.

No.  Lewis was certain of what he’d seen.  James was alive and in this house, and by all the rules and laws Lewis knew, that could not be.

Silence had descended on the room next door; the room Lewis now remembered was Chris Innocent’s bedroom and not his own living room.  More sounds drifted up from below.  Doors opened and closed and a car drove off.  It was 8.30am by his watch.

Lewis rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling.  There were no answers there, and he wouldn’t find them by staying where he was.  He forced himself to go to the bathroom where he washed and dressed.  His body was heavy and his mind wouldn’t settle.  His mystified reflection stared back at him from the bathroom mirror.  He should be happier than he was.  He and James were alive and unharmed, and James’s explanation of where he’d been was reasonable.  Yet nothing reasonable could explain what Lewis was certain he’d witnessed.

The practical Northerner in him rose up.  He recalled the paramedic warning him of ice as he’d been helped away from James’s door.  Was the answer as simple as that?  Had he recognised the gunshots, raced out to look for James, and slipped and hit his head?  He ran his hands over his scalp.  He didn’t feel any lumps, bumps, or sore spots, and the paramedic had said he didn’t appear injured.

Lewis screwed up his face in frustration.  The only thing he was truly certain of was the fact he couldn’t stay in Innocent’s bathroom all day.

Chris came up the stairs as Lewis descended.  When he chose to, Lewis could wear a mask as well as James did, and he wore one now.  “Morning, Chris.”

“Good morning, sir.  Sleep well?”

“As well as expected, under the circumstances.”

“Ah.  Mum’s just left for work muttering about safe houses and security patrols.  Your car’s been brought around – it’s parked out the front – and you’re to help yourself to anything in the kitchen.  And Mum would like to see you and Sergeant Hathaway in the station by 10am at the absolute latest or she’ll be sending an area car for you.”

“Thanks, lad.  Are you not working today?”

“Yeah, I am, but I’m not on until three.”

“Thanks for being okay with all this.”

“Part of the job, isn’t it?”

“Suppose it is.”

Lewis found James in the kitchen nursing a mug.  The cafetière was full.  James looked up as Lewis pulled out the chair opposite and sat down.  He pushed the coffee towards Lewis.

“Fresh brew.  I finished off the last one.”

“Have you eaten anything?”

“Not really hungry.  Feeling a bit...”  James puffed out his cheeks and avoided Lewis’s eyes.

“Strange bed can do that to you.”  It wasn’t the easy banter Lewis was used to sharing.  It was strained, forced.  They were two strangers and Lewis didn’t like it.  Knowing James as he did, Lewis considered his options.  “James, what really happened yesterday?”  Sometimes going head-on worked.  Not this time.

“Someone shot at my flat.”

“What happened to you?”

“I went to the shop for cigarettes.”

“So you said.  You also bought two packs two mornings ago.”

“I’d finished those.”

“Really?  I don’t know where you found the time over the past two days to smoke forty cigarettes.  I’ve been with you most of the time, and I can count on me fingers how many smoke breaks you took.”

James stood abruptly.  “I’m going out the back for a cigarette.  Could you please let me know when you’re ready to leave?”

Lewis leant on the table and covered his face with his hands.  He exhaled heavily, pulling his hands roughly down until he was cradling his chin.  He didn’t know what to think.

 

**********

 

The drive to the station was made in a long, uncomfortable silence.  They’d argued over which radio station to listen to until they both agreed on none.  For all their differences and disagreements, that had never happened before.

Lewis felt a key part of his world was falling apart, and it threatened to take some of the happiness he’d found since returning to Oxford down with it.

 

* * *

 

Although she knew it wasn’t possible for anyone in the interview room to see her, Innocent stood back from the glass to observe as first James, then Lewis came in to give their statements about the previous night to DI Laxton.  She never felt comfortable watching any of her officers on the wrong side of the table, and this would be the second time in a week James had been there.

Grainger had volunteered himself and Hooper to conduct these sessions, but Innocent had wanted someone who hadn’t been outside James’s flat.  She’d sent them back to the scene to talk to the neighbour who’d made the call, and to interview the shopkeeper.

James’s story rang as true as it had when he’d softly answered Lewis’s questions, and then given Peterson as good as the other man gave.  The bloody annoying man shouldn’t have even been there.

She knew James must have been to the shop.  She’d noticed a young PCSO picking up the items James had dropped before he’d sprinted to Lewis’s side.  The young woman had offered them to a SOCO, who’d pointed towards Hooper.  It was Hooper who’d passed them to Innocent without a word.

Laxton changed her questions, but James’s story never wavered.

Lewis’s interview, on the other hand, was slightly off.  She didn’t doubt his veracity.  Instead, she sensed there was something he wasn’t saying – or perhaps couldn’t say – about James leaving the flat.

Laxton asked him three different ways where he understood James to have gone.  Each time Lewis hesitated for a fraction of a second.

“He went outside…to buy cigarettes.”

“He was going out to...to go to the shop.”

“He said he was going…out.  I assumed he meant out the front for a smoke, but I realise now he’d gone up the road.”

Innocent tried to put herself in Lewis’s shoes.  He’d lost both Inspector Morse and then his wife suddenly, in ways he could have done nothing to prevent.  He’d been unable to protect or aid either of them, nor had he been there when they died.  James had obviously been far enough away from the flat not to recognise the sound of the shots for what they were, otherwise he would have returned sooner and spared everyone a great deal of worry.  Lewis, meanwhile, had thought James had been standing on the front step.  When Lewis had realised someone was shooting at the front door…  Innocent shivered.  The poor man must have expected the absolute bloody worst.

 

* * *

 

Lewis leant against the porcelain sink and stared at the mirror.  He looked like shit.  The bags under his eyes had taken on an oddly yellowish tinge, or maybe they only seemed that way because of the three pastel puce green toilet doors reflected in the mirror with him.  Whoever designed the colour scheme for the station must have been briefed to make the loos as uninviting as possible.  He turned on the cold tap, cupped his hands, and, bending down to minimise the splash, pushed his face into the collected pool of water.  He took care not to let the water run under his cuffs or down his chin and under his collar.  He was expected in Innocent’s office.  James had already gone ahead.  Lewis had blamed his side trip on a non-existent third cup of coffee.

Lewis wondered how long it would be before someone asked if he and James had fallen out, and who that someone would be.

He and James had had their moments in the past – what partners didn’t.  James’s secrecy over Will McEwan and what he hadn’t said about Crevecoeur were the most obvious, and then there was James’s intense privacy and near silence about his past.  Lewis had gently chipped holes in some of James’s defences, but there was still so much about the lad of which Lewis didn’t have a clue.

Now there was this.  James had to know Lewis knew something wasn’t as it seemed.  As he laid dying on the step, James had spoken to Lewis.  He’d apologised, but for what?  For dying?  For leaving Lewis with a mind-reeling conundrum?  James was a bloody conundrum in himself.  What was that line Lewis had heard on the telly one night at Lyn’s place?  “An enigma wrapped up in a puzzle.”  That was it.  That was James.  Now there was another layer around him.

Lewis tugged at the paper towel and began to dry his hands and face.  His colour was marginally better.  Maybe it hadn’t been the reflection of the doors.

One thing that had struck Lewis was that James wasn’t the one shying away, not as he’d done in the past.  Lewis was the one who was creating the distance.  James merely seemed to be respecting that.  If Lewis said nothing, what would James do?  Would he let things go as they were and hope for a surer footing, or would he begin to move away, believing any damage between them irreparable?  Lewis didn’t want either.  He wanted answers.  He wanted clarity.  He wanted to know what he’d seen.  Had James somehow, for some unknown reason, drugged him?  Had it all been a figment of Lewis’s imagination?

He dropped the crumpled paper in the bin, and then adjusted his collar and tie.

Was James the one who…?  “Stop it, Lewis,” he muttered angrily to himself before looking around quickly to make sure no-one had walked in on him scowling and talking to himself.  At his core, James was as honest as the day was long.  Any deceit on James’s part had ultimately boiled down to James hiding what he perceived to be his own failings and weaknesses.  James would never consciously do anything to harm another.  That wasn’t the James Lewis knew.

The door to the corridor swung open.  One of the officers from Central Records walked in and acknowledged Lewis with a nod before stepping up to the urinal.  Lewis had half expected him to say he’d been sent by Innocent or Laxton to find out where he was.  Lewis buttoned his jacket and left.

 

**********

 

“It all matches up,” Laxton said.  They were sitting around the small coffee table in Innocent’s office.  Innocent and James sat at either end of the couch under the window, while Lewis and Laxton had taken the two of the utilitarian visitors’ chairs and sat opposite.  A third chair stood near one end of the coffee table.

James had looked up hopefully at Lewis when Lewis had walked in behind Laxton.  Lewis had briefly met his eyes.  James had given Laxton and Innocent his full attention after that.

There was a short, sharp knock on the door, and DI Grainger entered.

Innocent rose.  “Ah, Grainger.  Take a seat.”  She waited until he’d settled himself.  “Your report, please.”

Grainger cleared his throat.  “The shopkeeper, Mr Paulo Dichiera, was able to positively identify James from a series of photos.  He said James was a fairly regular customer and had been in the previous evening and bought cigarettes.  He remembered it specifically because it was the first time he could recall James turning up without his wallet.  He’d given James credit and showed me the small notebook where he’d written it down.  Mr Dichiera said he knew James was a police officer and he trusted him to pay up.”

“And the neighbour who called in the shooting,” Innocent asked.

Grainger huffed.  “Mr and Mrs Sam and Margaret White, though it was Mrs White who’d placed the call.  I didn’t get anything useful from them beyond a sort of vague recollection.  She said the car was white, he said it could have been grey.  It was disappearing around the corner when they looked out the window, and there was some smoke hanging in the air.”

“That’d be when it squealed off down the road,” Lewis said.  “It was that made me realise I hadn’t heard a backfire.”

Laxton nodded.  “Mrs White said it was her husband who’d said he thought the bangs they’d heard were like gun shots.  He said there were three; she said two.  After the car was gone, Mrs White looked across the road towards James’s flat.  She said the front door was fully open and she saw someone fall.  That was when she phoned the police.”

“What exactly did she see?” James asked.

“She was adamant the person she’d seen fall had been solid and dark haired, and definitely ‘not the tall lad who lived there.’”

“What about the other residents within sight of James’s flat?” Laxton asked.  “Did anyone see anything else?”

“No.  Not a thing.  A few reported hearing the bangs and the car racing off, but no-one else bothered to look until the sirens started.”

Innocent held out her hand for the file.  James sat with his head bowed.  Lewis stared at the coffee table.  Mrs White had seen him drop to the ground to reach James.  With the door opened inward, she wouldn’t have been able to see the blood streaks, and the low hedge at the front of James’s building would have blocked her view of the top of the step where James’s body had lain.  No-one else had seen James there.

Lewis was no closer to an answer.

 

**********

 

Lewis wanted to go home.  Innocent wouldn’t permit it until security measures had been set in place.  He and James spent the remainder of the morning and early afternoon in the incident room with Laxton’s team where they could at least make themselves useful.  Lewis was reviewing the details of Murray’s shooting when Laxton called his name.  She was standing beside James, who was hunched over a desk covered in photographs.

“In my office?”  She didn’t wait for Lewis to respond, tapping James on the shoulder and walking into the small partitioned-off room in one corner.

James stood at ease beside the coat stand in the corner, hands clasped behind his back, looking directly at Laxton, who was resting against the desk.  Lewis closed the door and stood beside it.

“Ballistics results are back.”  Laxton tapped a file on the desk.  “If there was a third shot, they’ve been unable to find the bullet.  The two bullets removed from James’s door were fired from the same gun which killed Murray and that Graves was shot with.”

“And Susan Brayden?”  James had straightened to attention and his hands had dropped to his sides.

“We’re still waiting for the results.  I believe the body and the accompanying paperwork didn’t arrive until around ten.  Laura’s reviewing the findings now.”  She held James in her gaze.  “I’ve spoken to Jean.  James, we have to assume you were the intended target; that whoever shot at you and Murray recognised you, and believes you’ve recognised them or would be able to identify them.  I trust I don’t have to spell out how that could turn out for you.”

“No, ma’am,” James said emphatically.

“Jean’s informed me that you’ll both be free to return to your own homes this evening; however, you will each have a police guard at all times until this case is resolved.  You’ll be advised when Jean’s signed off on the paperwork and officers have been assigned.  James, if you’re uncertain about going to your flat, Jean’s spare room is still available, and if you can both limit activities outside of work that will make things easier all around.”

James sighed.

“Is there a problem, James?”

“No, ma’am.  Sorry.  The sooner this is over the better.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

 

**********

 

The rest of the day was strained.  When he and James were with others, Lewis could keep up a pretence that everything was as it should be.  It was a different matter when it was only the two of them.  Lewis knew what he had seen and, while grateful James was alive and well, he desperately wanted someone to explain what had happened.  More than once he tried to ask James, but James seemed to sense when it was going to happen.  He would suddenly leave the office, or make a phone call, or ask Lewis a question of his own.  Lewis stopped trying.  James was not more than five strides away from Lewis at any given moment, yet he might as well have been on the other side of the world.

The other investigations swirled around them, while their own sat stagnant.  The ballistics results were linking all the cases together, except for Carl Brayden.  If they could find the discrepancy, learn why he had been killed, Lewis felt sure other pieces of the puzzles around them would begin to slot into place.

The day became more frustrating.  Door-to-door enquiries along James’s road had failed to find anyone who had seen the vehicle.  Forensics had examined the tyre prints left on the road when the car had screamed off.  They belonged to a tyre found on a number of family-sized cars, and the best forensics could manage with what they had was to narrow it down to five different models based on the width between the tyres: the Audi A8 was not on the list.  There were no businesses on James’s street with CCTV, and the three homes that had external security cameras had them focussed on the front of the property, not the road.

Lewis had noticed James had taken several longer than usual smoke breaks during the day, and had followed him once.  James had spent the entire time pacing the length of the car park with his coat wrapped tightly around him, talking on the phone.  A deep frown had scarred his forehead.

When the call came through advising Laura was ready to present her findings on Susan Brayden’s death, Lewis had to stop himself from running down.

**********

“Susan Brayden was killed with a single shot to the head.”  Laura was resting against the edge of her desk.  An open file sat to one side.  “It’s not as easy as people think to do that, even if you’re up close to your victim.  With a gun pressed against the skull, yes, it’s almost guaranteed you’ll kill the person, but you’ll also end up with some sort of exit wound and a very small entry wound.  Ms Brayden was shot from a distance of at least three metres.  Your shooter was determined to stay as clean as possible.  That’s worked in our favour as we have a relatively intact bullet, and it matches those in the other cases you have.  In addition to being shot and burnt, from bruising and underlying injuries on the unburnt arm and her legs, Ms Brayden was also tightly bound and quite possibly gagged before her death.”

“Were you able to determine if she’d been sexually assaulted?”  Lewis was holding out faint hope for DNA.

“No.  That is, she wasn’t sexually assaulted as far as I or the pathologist at Aylesbury can determine.”  She looked at Lewis with concern.  “How are you after yesterday?”

“Still a bit rattled.  You know the job can put you in danger, but when it actually happens…”

James hadn’t spoken a word.  Laura studied him for a moment before returning to Lewis.  “I’ve a spare room at my place if either of you needs anywhere to stay for a few days.”

“Thanks, Laura,” Lewis replied.  “But I think I’d prefer to be in me own bed.  Something familiar, you know?”

Laura nodded.  “James?”

“I feel the same as Inspector Lewis, but thank you for the offer.”

If Laura thought it odd neither Lewis nor James had indicated they’d prefer the other’s company, she didn’t say, but the look of puzzlement in her eyes told Lewis she had unasked questions he probably wouldn’t be able to answer.

Lewis held out his hand for Laura’s written report.  “I’ll drop it up to Helen, save you the trip.”

James was already halfway out the door.

 


	20. 18 January – Saturday – Evening/night

 

Lewis was ready to stop for the day, but now found himself oddly unwilling to go home.  He and James had received their security assignments, and been told an additional area car would be moving between their homes during the nights.  Lewis had been quietly relieved they hadn’t been ordered to share a safe house.  The irony was, under slightly different circumstances, it would have been his own suggestion in order to make the security arrangements easier for everyone.  With things as they were between himself and James, however, Lewis felt even putting the idea forth could have had unwelcome repercussions.  Whatever was going to happen, Lewis sensed James didn’t need to find himself under the same roof as Lewis.

At 4pm, James announced he was leaving.  “I’ve got an appointment I can’t miss.”

“Don’t forget your bodyguard on the way out,” Lewis murmured.  James grunted an acknowledgement.  “Who have you got?”

“Sergeant Robbins.”

Lewis put a face to the name.  “Nearly seven foot tall and sixteen stone of muscle?”

“That’s him.”

“You’re in safe hands then.”

“You, sir?”

“Dowling.”

“I hear he’s a crack shot.”

“And he holds a second dan black belt in taekwondo.”

“I’ll remember not to sneak up on him.”

“Good plan.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

“See you tomorrow, James.”

Lewis wondered if James also felt like he was going through the motions.

 

* * *

 

Andrew curled on his side on the single hotel bed.  He’d done everything exactly as Graham had asked, and he felt sick.

_“You should feel good about yourself.  I’ve chosen you to correct Len’s little mistake in the woods.”_

He still felt the way his stomach had plummeted towards his feet.  Graham had thought of everything, and all Andrew had to do was stick to the plan.  He had, and now he wanted out, to get the money Graham had promised him and get as far from England as he bloody well could.  He still had the passport in his uncle’s name.  It had served him well, and he swore this would be the last time he ever used it.  He was heading for New Zealand and he wasn’t coming back.

He half sat up at a knock on his door.  When it came again, with greater force, Andrew forced himself to get up.  He checked the peephole before opening the door.

Graham.  At bloody last.  He unhooked the safety chain and opened the door.  Graham Hawker stood silent as Andrew secured the door again.

“Do you have it?”  Andrew started to walk back to the bed.  Without warning, a hand was around his throat and he was being pushed against the wall.

“DS Hathaway is still alive.”  Graham held him at arms’ length and spoke softly.  “You told me you got a clean shot.”

“I did,” Andrew choked out around the pressure on his neck.  “Straight into the chest.  Boom!  He was down.”

“Really?”  Graham jabbed him in the chest with two fingers.  “Why did I see him standing at the back of an ambulance less than an hour after you supposedly shot him, and why did I see him walking into the police station this morning, completely unharmed?”  Graham pulled him away from the wall and shoved him towards the bed.

Andrew’s own hand went to his throat.  Christ, it hurt.  “I shot him, boss.”

“I don’t think you understand what that really means.  Allow me to show you how it’s done correctly.”

 

* * *

 

Lewis’s front door opened and he was surprised to see James enter.  James looked equally surprised.

“You gave Sergeant Dowling your house key?”

“Seemed easier than making him knock or call if he needed to come inside for any reason.  How did you get here?”

“Robbins drove me over.”

“What brings you here?”

James squared his shoulders and lifted his chin.  “I know things aren’t right, but if you’re willing to listen to me, if you still trust me, I’d be grateful if you would come with me now.”

Lewis sighed softly.  “I do trust you, James, but this isn’t about trust – not entirely; I don’t understand what’s going on and I need some answers.”

James hung his head.  “I know, and I do have them.  Answers.  For you.  I hope.  And a proposal.”

“Proposal?”

“All in good time.  Will you come?”

“Let me get my coat.  Where are we going?”

“Chaucer College.”

Lewis kept his remaining questions to himself.  This was James’s show now.

 

**********

 

At James’s request, Lewis persuaded Dowling to stay at his flat.

“We’ll be with Robbins, man.  It’ll be fine.”

Lewis sat in the rear of Robbins’s car, James in the front.

“Back to your place, sir?”  Robbins started the engine.

“Chaucer College, please.  The Porter’s lodge.”  Robbins sat perfectly still for two seconds.  What was the significance of Chaucer College, Lewis wondered.

No-one spoke for the twenty minutes it took them to drive across Oxford to the college.  Robbins stopped the car under a street light.

“Shall I come with you, sir?”

“No.  We’re amongst friends here.  If you go into the lodge, I’m sure the Porter would be happy to make you some tea.”  Robbins bore the look of a man who knew he was being given the slip, and it didn’t sit well with him.

“I have my orders, sir, from the Chief Super.”

“I know, and I apologise for asking you to ignore them.”  James made no excuses.

Robbins twisted to look at Lewis.  “And you, sir?”

James was also looking at Lewis.  It was a plea.  “It’ll be fine, Robbins,” Lewis answered.

James stood by the car, shivering, until Robbins had entered the Porter’s lodge and the door had closed firmly behind him.

“This way, sir.”

James led Lewis to a side door away from the Porter’s Lodge.  Lewis was startled to see Father Anthony waiting in the shadows.

The priest took them through another small locked door that led into a narrow passageway.  Lewis found himself between James and Father Anthony.  Behind yet another door, they stepped into a small, yet elaborate room.

Lewis looked at James.  “Is this…?”

“A Masonic lodge?  Yes.  The beginning, and perhaps one day the end, of my story.”

“I never knew you were a Mason?”

“I’m not.  I was going to be once, but I never completed my investiture.”

“Then what did you mean by–”

“All in good time, sir.  Please.”  James gestured across the room to where Father Anthony stood by a small table.  Three chairs were positioned in a triangle around the table, and a jug of water and three glasses sat on top.

“Sit, please,” Father Anthony said quietly.

Lewis took the offered chair and continued to take in the details of the room.  Compared to other Lodges he’d seen, this room was far smaller than he would have expected, and the roof was considerably lower.

“This room was the original lodge built in 1712,” Father Anthony explained, as he filled the three glasses.  “And this wing of the College was built around it.”

“Is this Lodge still used today?” Lewis asked.  “Only I always thought there was a separate Lodge building on the grounds.”

“There is.  The purpose of this room will become clear in due course.  First, I should explain why you’ve been invited here.  James, you should sit down too.”  Father Anthony sat after James did.  “You need to understand, Inspector, the incident with the shooting has hastened our plans.  This…”  He exhaled slowly.  “I am one of James’s guardians.  I have been so since 1973.”

Lewis frowned.  “1973?  But James wasn’t born until 1978.  And he’s a bit old to be needing a guardian, though some days,” he appraised James, “it’d be a relief to know there was someone making sure you slept and ate properly.”

Father Anthony touched Lewis’s arm.  “Please, Mr Lewis, all will become somewhat clearer.  I’m not a guardian in the usual sense, though how you choose to arrange your relationship is entirely up to you.”

“Sorry?”  Lewis frowned.  _Arrange your relationship?_

“James, you need to explain.”  Father Anthony leant back from the table.

James laid his hand over Lewis’s wrist.  “This won’t make a lot of sense immediately: I’ve brought you here to ask you if you’ll be my guardian, but before you can even consider that question, you have to learn who, what, I am.”

Lewis was quickly becoming fed up with feeling his world had tilted.  Part of him wanted to walk out of the small room and leave James and his precious Father Anthony, the man James had called upon in his hour of need, to their own company.  However, James was gazing at him with complete openness and trust, something he didn’t do as often as Lewis would have liked.  Lewis nodded for James to continue.

“I have died twice this week.  First in the car in Bernwood Forest, and then in your arms last night.  I don’t always remember when it happens, or the events before or after, but I do remember your face last night, and that’s why I need to do this now.”  Lewis felt his jaw drop.  James drank from the glass closest to him.  “I was baptised James Edward Hathaway on the third of May 1736 in the City of London.”  Lewis was too stunned to speak.  “My father was a banker.  In the early hours of the sixth of November 1764, at the age of 28, I stood in this room for my investiture into the Brotherhood of Masons.  It was a time when astrology and a belief in magic held strong sway, and this Lodge had been built over what was believed to be a ley line.  It was considered that 4am on that Tuesday morning would be fortuitous for me.”

“As the ceremony reached the crucial moment, an earthquake struck Oxford.  As earthquakes go, it was a small one, now believed to be around 3.4 on the Richter scale, but it was enough to shake the foundations here.  The Master had the dagger pressed to my breast, and when the quake hit I fell onto the blade.  It was no-one's fault, and you could say fate played a hand in my future for, according to the sealed records, my body rippled, vanished, and reappeared a few minutes later.  I bore on my chest a scar where the blade had entered, but no wound.”

“Whenever I die, I… awaken here, where I first fell on that fateful day, naked, and bearing no sign of what killed me.  Every trace of me, every drop of blood that has been spilled… vanishes from the place of my death.  All evidence of the cause of death disappears from my body.  The second bullet that struck me last night will never be found.  It will never show up in an x-ray, and there will be no trace found of the damage it caused to me – no scar, no healed bone.  My secret has been protected by the guardians ever since.  Most are Freemasons, though over the years, select individuals have been entrusted with the truth.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You saw me die.  You know you saw me die.  I know you saw me die.  You, of all the people I know, deserve to know the truth.  Because the Lodge believe you are the guardian I need, and I agree.  Because I don’t want to have to leave Oxford and leave you behind, forever wondering what happened.”

Lewis touched James’s hand where it lay warm on his skin to remind himself James was very real.

“You’re losing me, lad.”

“Over the years, I’ve tried to stay in one place for as long as possible, but when questions begin to be asked, when rumours start to spread that there is something 'unnatural' about me, I have to disappear.  Sometimes there have been… incidents, such as the one that made me the way I am–”

“Or yesterday’s shooting.”

“Yes, except you were the only true witness to that death.  There have been other incidents where there were witnesses to state they saw me die, or who could testify there could be no possibility I would have survived.  When that happens, when my… reappearance… would only lead to unanswerable questions – or panic at certain time or places – then the Lodge would then arrange to change my identity, provide me with new documents, and send me away with a 'protector', a guardian.  Other guardians would watch this lodge, this temple, in readiness for my next appearance.”

Lewis was struck mute.  James smiled sadly.

“The Lodge arranged for me to complete my first DPhil at Oxford, and then, over the years, to study at the Sorbonne, Harvard, Heidelberg, and Edinburgh.  Where they’ll send me when the next time comes for me to 'disappear', I have no idea.  I can make suggestions, but there are so many unknowns.”

Lewis endeavoured to concentrate on one detail at a time.  He looked at Father Anthony.

“You’re his current guardian?”

“I’m one of five, but James’s primary guardian.  There are only ever five at any given time; if you accept the role, I retire.”

“Are you a freemason?”

“No,” Father Anthony said sombrely.  “Like you, I was chosen from outside the Lodge because I had a connection to James.”

“Did you go with James to Cambridge, and then back to Oxford?”

“Not exactly.”

“Were you at the Seminary with James?”

“No.”

“But if you’ve been his guardian since 1973, then surely–”

James gently took hold of Lewis’s arm, drawing his attention back.  “When you give yourself time to think, there will be a great deal that doesn’t make sense, that, in your mind, in your experience, can’t possibly fit with what you know of me.  Nevertheless, I ask you to trust me.  I will give you the answers you seek.”

Lewis did have questions, but he had no idea where to start.  “James.”  It came out on a pained breath.

James took Lewis’s hand between his own.  “Not today.  It took me several months to even begin to accept what had happened to me, and even after nearly 250 years, I still have unanswered questions.”

Lewis wanted to touch James’s face, to hold it between his palms and bring James closer.  To seek the truth in James’s eyes.  “Laura and I joke about you being an old soul… but you really are, aren’t you?” he whispered.

James nodded, his face a mask.

Father Anthony spoke up again, breaking into the world tentatively building around Lewis.  “James assured us you could be trusted not to speak of this to anyone outside of the small circle of those around him.  I need you to swear this.”

“Who’d believe me?”

“Swear it.”

“I swear it.”

Lewis looked over James, seeing him with new, very perplexed eyes.  “Can I ask you about what happened last night?”

James nodded.

“You died, disappeared, and… turned up here?”

“Yes.”

“Did you–”  Lewis pointed at Father Anthony.  “–were you here when it happened?”  Father Anthony nodded.  “And, what?  You dressed James and dropped him back near his home?”

“That’s a pared down version, but yes.”

Lewis’s eyes narrowed as he studied James.  “You knew what had happened, yet you asked me what had happened.  All that fussing: was that all an act?”

“No!”  James released Lewis’s hand and flinched backwards as though Lewis had struck him.  “I’d expected to see police – I was ready for that.  What I didn’t expect was to see you in the back of an ambulance.  I thought… your heart, then I panicked thinking whoever had shot at me had come back and found you.  I didn’t know what to think.”

“Oh.”  Lewis had been so caught up in his own questions he hadn’t put himself in James’s shoes at any point.  “Sorry.  I didn’t…”

James took Lewis’s hand again.  “It’s okay; I can see how it might look to you now, a clever ploy on my part, but I can assure you it was not an act.  I realise may have stepped over a boundary or three, but I needed to know you were safe and unharmed.”

Lewis looked to Father Anthony.  “Did you know I’d seen James die?”

“Yes.  As I said, the shooting hastened our plans.  James insisted he had to return to you, and that the truth could be… manipulated… without changing the incident.  Please believe me when I say we do not make a habit of this.  Had you gone to the door two minutes later, you would have only seen the bullets in the door.  You would have had no reason to doubt James’s version of events, yet they would have played out identically.”

“The shopkeeper’s statement?  Is he one of your lot?”

“No,” Father Anthony said.  “Another guardian is adept in a form of hypnosis.  This is the first time we’ve used his skill in this manner.  It was considered absolutely necessary.  As James is a regular customer at the shop, it wasn’t hard to bring forth an earlier memory of him and convince the proprietor James had been in the shop at the time of the shooting at his flat.  When Mr Dichiera gave his statement, neither he nor anyone else had any reason to doubt its veracity.”

“And the store has never had CCTV, just as I said,” James added.

“But the note in the shopkeeper’s notebook Grainger saw?”

Father Anthony looked sheepish.  “Sleight of hand and hypnosis can go hand in hand.”

Lewis shook his head slowly.  “If Innocent ever finds out…”

“She won’t.”  James held Lewis’s gaze.  “Only if you or I tell her.”

“Or the person who shot you kicks up merry hell when they learn you’re alive.”

“Who would be believed?”

Lewis huffed.  “What about your clothes?  You’d been shot in the chest, yet when you walked around that corner, your shirt was pristine.  And you said you... wake up… naked.”

Father Anthony stood and headed towards an ornately carved set of doors.  When he swung them open, Lewis gasped and looked at James.  “What…?”

“I keep a full wardrobe of clothes here as a precaution, changing them as fashion changes.  Over the years, it generally hasn’t been necessary for me to be able to match what I was wearing when I died, but the guardians have always insisted I be prepared.  It’s paid off this past week, especially yesterday.”

Lewis walked over to stand beside Father Anthony.  “This explains a few things.”  James gave him a curious look.  “I always thought it odd, a young bloke like you not wearing shorts in the height of summer, and wearing your work shirts in roughly the same colour order.  Thought you–”

“You noticed that?”  James stared wide-eyed.  “I thought I mixed it up enough not to be–”

“Took me a while.  Wasn’t until Laura made a comment on your lavender shirt that I really started to pay attention.  The order’d get mucked about if we were on a major case, but when we had quiet spells and were pretty much desk-bound, it became obvious.”  Lewis thumbed at the door that kept them hidden from the rest of the lodge.  “That lot expect you to die quite often, do they?”

“I have died quite often.”  James’s quiet, matter-of-fact delivery was chilling.

“How…?”

“How did I die?  Or how often?”  James asked calmly.

“James.  This is…  We’re talking about your life, man, and you sound…  How can you be so calm?”

“I don’t really have a choice.”

As the truth began to sink in, Lewis’s all-consuming feeling for James was sadness.  The whole night, however, had been overwhelming and Lewis’s head was a whirling mass of questions and arguments.

“I think I’d like to go home now, James.”

To Lewis’s relief, neither James nor Father Anthony attempted to persuade him otherwise.  Father Anthony nodded to James – it bore the gravity of a bow – and then James led the way out of the small Lodge and into the night.

 

**********

 

Lewis slept poorly.  It was almost too much for him to take in, but he couldn’t deny the evidence of his own eyes.  He’d seen James die, and then had seen him alive and unharmed barely an hour later.  How else could that be unless what James had told him was the truth?  But… magic and ley lines?  Memories flew at Lewis, each bringing their own questions and conundrums.  If James is James, how could he have…?  So many things didn’t make sense.  Lewis groped for a place in his mind to start.  He got up.  Perhaps if he could get some of his thoughts out of his head, he might rest.  While looking for a spare notebook, Lewis found the photocopy Peterson had produced what felt like a lifetime ago.  Lewis tucked it inside the notebook cover.  He would add it to his questions.

 


	21. 19 January – Sunday

 

Lewis heard movement in the kitchen.  It was the sound of someone trying to find cups, plates, and whatever else they might need for their breakfast.  Lewis had given the young man permission to help himself, and to pass that permission on to whomever replaced him.

The bedside clock showed 6am.  Sleep wasn’t going to return any time this morning.  Any other weekend, and he could have had the day off.  Any other weekend without a multiple murderer on the loose.

Lewis kicked the covers back.  He’d wash and dress before greeting Dowling.  Being seen by a junior officer while wearing rumpled pyjamas and with an undoubtedly bad case of bed-head wasn’t going to help Lewis command the respect Innocent would expect him to.  Yes, James saw him that way quite often, but with James, it was different.  Lewis could be confident James wouldn’t whisper in the break room about how old and worn and past it Lewis knew he looked some mornings.  James had a way of seeing Lewis that skipped past the obvious and saw what and how he was really feeling on those days.

Knowing what he knew now, it began to make sense, and it explained James’s well-tuned copper’s nose.  No amount of natural ability could make up for life experience, and James had more of that than any other person on earth did.

Lewis stood in the middle of the bathroom.  What if it had all been some elaborate dream?  Lewis wasn’t given to fanciful notions; however, a small, nagging voice kept prodding him.  _“Are you sure it’s all real?  Maybe_ you _went out with Murray on Monday.  Maybe you’re in the JR in a coma.  Maybe James is hovering by your bedside, talking to you, encouraging you, and willing you back.”_   On the other hand, maybe there’d been something off in the minestrone and this was all a food-poisoning induced nightmare.

Lewis quietly left the bathroom to peek into his kitchen.  Dowling was hovering over the toaster, while another officer stood in the middle of the kitchen floor with a mug of something, looking a little uncomfortable.  However, no James.  Not a nightmare then.

Lewis slipped back and locked the bathroom door behind him.  The sound of the shower would let the two officers know he was up.  Lewis ran the water as hot as he could bear it and let the sharp needles do their work.  He stretched out the stiffness in his neck, first to one side, then the next, then around in slow circles.  

Last night had been as real as the sting of the water on his body now.

James had died twice.

By his own admission, James had died many times.  Yet James was very much alive.  If he died and yet lived, did he really die?  Why did his body return to the same place?  Lewis started to wonder if all the philosophers and logicians weren’t a little mad.  He was beginning to feel that way himself.

Lewis pushed his head against the tiles, using their solidity to ground himself.  Lewis didn’t believe in magic, though he accepted that others did.  But not James.  As for what Father Anthony, a Catholic priest, would hold to be true…  Lewis wasn’t even going to begin to follow that line of thought.  James had seemingly dismissed the notion of magic, though not in so many words.  _“It was a time,”_ James had said, and he also said he still had unanswered questions.

No magic.  Not mystical.  Unexplained.  Lewis could live with ‘unexplained’.  Unexplained meant one day an answer might be found.

Lewis shook himself and rubbed his arms where goosebumps had risen.  He’d serve himself best by concentrating on what he did know and understand.  James had promised him answers.  He’d try to be patient.  Lewis considered the second young man currently standing in his kitchen.  He was either PC Kent or Keele, Lewis thought.  It would be his task to see Lewis safely to work.  Lewis wondered whom James woke up to greet this morning.

 

**********

 

PC David Keith – Lewis had been close – had delivered Lewis to the station by 8.30am.  He heard someone greet James shortly before nine and Lewis suddenly wasn’t sure if he should act as if nothing had changed.  They couldn’t discuss their visit to Chaucer College, not here, though Lewis wondered what Dowling and Robbins had made of it.  He was distracted when James walked into their office, clearly annoyed by something.

“Didn’t you enjoy being chauffeured to work today?” Lewis asked.  “Doesn’t seem to bother you when I do it.”

James thumped down in his chair, giving out a loud huff.  “I had Constable Stephens – the one who runs half-marathons?”

“I know him.”

“He wouldn’t stop at the bakery, and I said ‘please’.  Said his instructions were to get me to the station, not take me on a scenic tour, and ‘by the way, bacon and egg rolls aren’t good for your cholesterol.’  Can you believe the cheek?”

“Ah, give him a break; he sounds like an occasionally over-protective sergeant I know quite well.  Remember, these blokes have to report to Innocent.”

“Ah, about that.”  James looked uncomfortable.  “My ‘appointment’ yesterday afternoon was also at Chaucer College with Father Anthony.”  Ah.  Robbins’s reaction to last night’s visit made sense now.  “Robbins asked why I went back there last night and took you.  It seemed churlish to tell him to mind his own business, so I told him it was related to the case.”

“It was.  In a way.  Though I hope you can come up with something plausible if Innocent asks.”

“So do I.”

 

* * *

 

Laura made her way up to Robbie’s office.  Since she’d seen them to deliver her findings on Susan Brayden, she’d been worried for both of them, and had needed little convincing when Jean had asked her to check in on them.  Their interactions had been completely off, as though there had been a floor-to-ceiling brick wall between them that they refused to communicate around.  It certainly wasn’t how she would have expected either of them to react to an attack on the other, and very different to what Jean had told her had occurred on Monday night after Robbie had arrived at A&E.

From what she’d heard about Friday night, Robbie had come off the worst, having collapsed by James’s front door.  She’d witnessed Robbie’s fear when James had gone missing in Bernwood Forest, and for something similar to appear to have happened a second time, so soon after the first instance, would have been devastating.  She was angry at James for thinking it had been okay to wander off without being clear about where he was going.  Even if there hadn’t been a shooting, if Robbie had gone to the front door expecting to find James out there with a cigarette and found nothing…

She wanted to sit James down and give him a lecture about his responsibilities to his partner.  It wasn’t about the job.  It was about friendship, about the unique bond they had.  Like twins, Laura suspected Robbie and James could sense when the other was in danger.

She stopped in the corridor.  Going in fired up and ready to lecture James wasn’t going to achieve anything, especially if it turned out she was reading far more into their relationship than was really there.  Finding out what, if anything, she could do – that would help.  Observing if there had been any changes since yesterday – that would help.

“Calm, Laura,” she murmured under her breath.  She opened the door, walked smartly through the outer office, and tapped on their door.

“Morning, boys.  All well here?”  James was behind his desk, scowling, while Robbie looked faintly amused.  She hadn’t expected this.  Had she imagined everything yesterday?  Had her own concerns and fears exaggerated what she believed she’d seen?  “James?”

“The Boy Wonder’s a bit miffed because he didn’t get to stop for breakfast this morning.  What can we do for you, Laura?”

“Just wanted to make sure your bodyguards did their job last night, and to see if there’s anything I can do for you.”

James looked up hopefully.  “I don’t suppose you could see your way to finding a way to distract Robbins when he’s back on duty tonight?  He tutted every time I went outside to have a cigarette.”

Laura’s eyebrows shot up.  That wasn’t bloody surprising given the reason he was under guard.  Laura bit down her first response.  “So do I, James, though you may not always hear me.  So does Robbie.”

“I do not.”  Robbie sat up straight.  “Not every time.”

James slumped down, unimpressed.  “Yes, but neither you nor Inspector Lewis could bodily lift me back inside the building if I argued.”

“I most certainly could,” Robbie said indignantly, addressing his response to Laura, not James.

“I’d certainly give it a shot if I thought it would make you stop,” said Laura, and gave him a wink.

The whole time she was talking to them, she’d been trying to figure out what was different.  Then it struck her.  They weren’t trading comments back and forth with each other as usual.  So things weren’t quite right.

She caught the look Robbie gave James when James had turned to his computer.  _Well, that’s certainly different._  “I’m not entirely certain I’d have much sway with Sergeant Robbins, James, but if there’s anything else I can do for either of you, you know where to find me.”

“Aye, thanks, Laura.”

James gave a nod and a half-smile.

 

**********

 

Laura settled on the couch in Jean’s office, and the two women chatted about Jean’s new earrings, and other generally inconsequential matters, until Jean’s PA came in with two coffees on a tray.

Jean stirred sweetener into her coffee.  “What did you make of the Dynamic Duo?” she asked Laura.

“I can’t quite work them out, to be honest, although something’s definitely changed since yesterday.  They seem a little bit easier with each other this morning, but they’re still not themselves.  Yesterday, you would have had to be deaf and blind not to notice the wall between them; today, I’m guessing only those who work closest with them might pick up on the distance between them.  I have to confess I do have some concerns I might be projecting my own feelings on to what I’ve seen, but…”  She sighed heavily.

“That was my thought, too.”  Jean held her cup between the fingers of both hands.  “I was worried I was too close to see what was really going on.  Do you think they’ll be okay?”

“I think so.  It would have to be something earth shattering to drive a permanent wedge between those two.  There was one thing: when he thought neither of us was looking, Robbie’s expression changed.  He’d been looking at James – that little indulgent look he gives him sometimes when he’s letting James get away with pure cheek, except James wasn’t being cheeky – then, and it only there for a second or so, he was looking at James as though he’d never seen him before.  It was bloody odd.”

Jean considered that for a moment.  “It was probably a private joke.  You know those two, Laura; they can hold an entire conversation with a raised eyebrow and a half-smirk.”

“I know, but this was odd even for them.”

 

* * *

 

Lewis put the phone down.  “There’ve been developments.  Are you coming?”  He heard James fall into step behind him as they moved briskly down the corridors.  Lewis must have looked like a man on a mission, as those they approached moved swiftly out of the way.

“We’re here,” he announced, striding into the incident room and standing next to Laxton.  James slipped across the room to stand beside Innocent, who raised her eyebrows at Lewis in a query.  Lewis looked at James, and James shrugged.  Innocent closed her eyes and shook her head.

“Right everyone.”  Laxton raised her hands to stop the chatter.  “Quiet, please.”

The hum and tick of the fluorescent lights became the dominant sound.

“Andrew Caulfield’s Jeep was finally brought in for examination last night.  SOCO have found blood in the back.  It wasn’t a great quantity, but the sample also contained some traces of brain matter, so we’re assuming it’s Susan Brayden’s, ejected through the bullet entry wound – it’ll be a couple of days at least before we get any sort of DNA result.  Given the lack of forensic evidence at the farmhouse, it seems safe to assume she was killed in the Jeep.  For now, we’re working on the assumption Caulfield’s the killer, but if he’s not, he probably knows who is.”

“We can’t be certain we’re only after one murderer though, especially with Caulfield claiming he was shot at.”  James stood with his arms folded tightly across his chest.

“No, but given we can now disprove Caulfield’s version of events, we have to conclude he knows a hell of a lot more than he’s given us.”

“Disprove?”  Lewis looked to Innocent who nodded.

Laxton continued.  “Caulfield claimed he was shot at and his vehicle struck.  The only external damage anywhere on the Jeep was caused by it being wedged in between trees and bushes.  No bullet holes, no shattered glass, nothing that could have been caused by a bullet.  Now all we need to do is find Caulfield and this Rupert Hall character.  A small team is going back out to the farmhouse and the woods to see if there’s anything we’ve missed, and I’m still waiting on a final report from Aylesbury to see if Susan Brayden was ever spotted in the town on Monday.  Any questions?”  The room was silent.  “Right, you all have your actions.  Let’s find this little bastard.”  She headed for the door, followed by several officers.

Lewis puffed out his cheeks.  More waiting.  They’d spent so much of the past week waiting for other people’s results and reports.  Bugger waiting.  Innocent caught up to him as he started to follow DI Laxton.

“Inspector Lewis, you and Sergeant Hathaway are not to leave this building.  Is that understood?”

James huffed loudly behind him and earned a glare from Innocent that could have frozen sea ice.

They headed slowly back to their office, where their own case lay stagnant, and waited.  While common sense said Caulfield was the person most likely to have killed Carl Brayden, they still had an unidentified shooter, perhaps two.  All strangulation meant was their killer didn’t have a gun handy.  It didn’t mean they couldn’t be the same person.

“Doesn’t make sense,” James muttered.  “Caulfield must have known finding the Jeep would put him squarely in the picture for Susan Brayden’s death, yet he didn’t lie about where the vehicle was.”

“Bastard probably knew that Hall character was going to keep him out of custody, and then he could scarper.”  Lewis huffed and drummed is fingers on the desk in frustration.  “I reckon he and Hall left the country Wednesday night.  Buggering hell!”

 

**********

 

Lewis was startled to see Laxton walk into their office a couple of hours later and lean heavily on the doorframe.  Her dejected look didn’t bode well.

“A body’s been found in a hotel room out by the Business Park.  It’s Caulfield.  Single shot to the centre of his forehead, exactly like Susan Brayden.  SOCO are in there now, and they’re making vicious noises about overtime budgets and sleep deprivation.  I thought you’d want to know.”

With a heartfelt sigh, she was gone.

“Someone’s cleaning up.”  James looked ill.  “I wonder how long it will be before Hall’s body turns up somewhere, or if they’ll decide to have another go at…”  He stared out the window.

“They won’t get near you, James, whoever they are.  They’ll have to get through the likes of Robbins first.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.  Robbins is big, and he’s strong, and he’s surprisingly quick and agile, but he’s not Superman.  He’s not impervious to bullets.  None of them are.”

“No, I don’t suppose he is,” Lewis said quietly.  He’d been so caught up in his own confusion he hadn’t properly considered how James was faring.  James would be carrying the guilt of Murray’s death not simply because he’d escaped, but also because everyone believed he’d been incredibly lucky.  He was living a lie.  Added to that, other officers were now potentially at risk in order to protect James and, short of bringing in the murderer, there was little Lewis could do to change that.

What a bloody mess.

 

* * *

 

James was feeling as discouraged as Laxton had looked earlier.  They’d heard Caulfield’s body had been brought in, and SOCO were struggling to find any evidence of a shooter in the room.

“Whoever is doing this is forensically aware,” James muttered.  “You don’t suppose whoever’s been altering records is…”

Lewis’s shocked look stopped him in his tracks.

“Anyone who watches those CSI shows is forensically aware, James.  The timelines are all wrong, but the basics are there – gloves, bleach, cover your hair, wipe down surfaces, avoid CCTV, don’t eat or drink anything – it’s not exactly rocket science.”

“The third glass at Caulfield’s flat.”

“What about it?”

“It could have been wiped down.  The user could have worn gloves.”

“That would have looked a bit odd to Caulfield and Hall.  Someone comes into your flat and accepts a drink with gloved hands: you’d be a bit wary of them, wouldn’t you?”

“Not if I was used to seeing them wear gloves.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know.  There’s something that’s not coming to the front of my mind.”  James closed his eyes and tried to focus on the idea drifting around the periphery of his thoughts.  “It’s just on the edge.”

“Are you starting to remember?”

James opened his eyes and shook his head.  “No.  It’s not a memory, more an impression.  Someone’s hands.  Nope.”  James was furious and disgusted with himself.  “It won’t come.”

“Don’t force it.  Maybe if you go home and try to get a decent night’s sleep, it’ll be clearer in the morning.”

“Perhaps.  Would you like to come over for dinner?  The pasta bake was burnt to a crisp before someone realised it was in the oven, but I can make something else.”

James held his breath.  Lewis turned slowly back towards his monitor.  “I, ah, if it’s okay with you, I’d rather have some time by myself tonight.  I’m still trying to… you know.”

If he was honest with himself, it was the response James had expected.  He’d often wondered how he would react to being told the person he worked beside, the one he was closest to, was immortal.  He doubted he’d take the news as well as Lewis seemed to be.

 


	22. 19 January – Sunday – Night

 

James put his untouched beer on the coffee table, sliding an old magazine underneath it first.  He’d opened the bottle out of habit rather than any desire to have a drink.  James had taken a major gamble by allowing Lewis to learn the truth about himself.  When he’d first partnered up with Lewis, he’d known there was every possibility a day would arrive when his secret would be exposed, and James would have to choose between full disclosure and disappearing without a trace.  It was after Crevecoeur, when Lewis had protected him and hadn’t demanded answers about James’s past, when James had decided that, should the day come, Lewis was to know the truth.

There was always the possibility Lewis would decide he couldn’t be around James knowing what he knew about him now.  If he did, at least now he would have some answers.  He would know exactly what had happened to James and why.  That was important to James.  He wasn’t prepared to be another pointless loss in Lewis’s life.

Robbins shifted restlessly at the other end of James’s couch as the telly droned away quietly.

James’s eyes drifted to the top of his bookshelf.  So many memories.  So many regrets and poor decisions.  Sometimes, James regretted not telling Elizabeth the truth and other days he was grateful she never knew.  When he’d first told the guardians he planned to marry Elizabeth, they’d tried to dissuade him.  When he was adamant, they’d asked him to consider being honest with her.

“What if I lose her?”

“You’ll have to lose her one day, James.  A man can only age gracefully for so long, and then it becomes suspicious.”

“I want this.”

They’d allowed the marriage to go ahead, becoming suitably horrified when, shortly after, James had informed them Elizabeth was pregnant, that he was to become a father.

“Do you realise how you’re complicating things?  We don’t know enough about your… condition… to know if the child will be affected in any way.”

“Every pregnancy is a risk,” James had countered.  “I just want to live a normal life.”

They’d harassed him but, to their credit, not one had suggested the pregnancy be terminated.  Elizabeth had eventually delivered a healthy baby boy, who, along with Elizabeth, had become the centre of James’s world.

If Elizabeth hadn’t died when she did…  James tried not to think on what would have come to pass.

Now he wanted Lewis at his side for as long as humanly possible.  But if Lewis – Robbie – couldn’t come to terms with who, what, James was, James wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to do.

 

* * *

 

Lewis’s door opened to reveal Sergeant Dowling.  “Excuse me, sir; there’s a Father Anthony here who wants to know if he can have a chat.”

Lewis rose from the couch.  “That’s fine, thanks, Dowling.”  The solid, uniform-clad man stepped back, opening up the doorway.  “Come in, Father.  Can I get you a drink?”

“Thank you.  Whisky, if you have it.”

Lewis waved him towards the couch.  “Apologies if the welcoming committee was a bit daunting.”

“James said you were both under protection.  Are you under watch around the clock?”

“We’re confined to the station during the day, and there are relief officers who do other shifts.  Dowling’ll be relieved around six in the morning.”

“It’s a horrible business.  I’m relieved to know you and James are as safe as possible.”

“But it doesn’t really matter to James, does it?  If he were to get shot again, he’d just pop up in that room of yours, wouldn’t he?”

Father Anthony drew his lips into a line.  “He may just ‘pop up,’ as you put it, but that wouldn’t necessarily mean he’d return to duty, return to you.”

Lewis bit back the ‘what are you talking about.’  He waited.

Father Anthony tasted the whisky – Lewis had poured the Macallan – and savoured it for a moment.  “If there was an incident, and we, the guardians, believed James could continue with his current life, a plausible story would be formed, as has been done.  However, if there were witnesses, or if the ‘incident’ was such that survival would be deemed impossible, James Hathaway as you know him would cease to be.  You now know his secret, you would know he was alive somewhere, but unless you were a guardian, you could never see him again.  He could never connect with someone from this life, this existence, ever again.”

James gone.  Lewis wouldn’t even have the chance to say goodbye, as he’d done with Morse and Val.  Lewis hadn’t considered that, which was foolish and short-sighted of him.  What had he expected would happen?  That James would creep up to his door one night and say, ‘just come to say goodbye.  I’m off to be a new me’?

“And it does matter greatly to James,” Father Anthony said softly.  “James tells me you’re a father.”  Lewis nodded.  “Imagine, one day, you found yourself in a position where you had to walk out and leave everything behind.  You couldn’t tell anyone what happened, or where you were going, that you could never contact your family again.  Imagine you were living a new life knowing that your family would never have answers to their questions, would never know what became of you.  James doesn’t have to imagine that.”

“Why are you here?” Lewis whispered, not trusting his voice.

“Because you have questions you can’t or don’t want to ask James.  Every new guardian does – I did, so why shouldn’t you?  However, if you ask me to leave and never approach you again, I and my brethren will honour your request.”

“I haven’t agreed to be–”

“Do you reach a conclusion in a case without all the evidence?”

“Well, no.”

“Do you feel you have enough evidence to make a decision about James?”

“Possibly.  I’d like a little more time to work through it.”

“Fair enough.  Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

“I keep wondering if I’ve ever crossed paths with James in the past.”

“Was there any recognition when you first met?  When he first spoke to you?”

“No.”

“Have you been anywhere with him and sensed déjà vu?”

“No.  But that doesn’t mean we couldn’t have met.”

“No.”

“I’ll never know, will I?”

“That would depend on whether James remembers meeting you at any time, and if he chooses to tell you.”

“Aren’t you afraid James will be found out or betrayed?”

“The Lodge has guarded the secret for over 240 years.  There is no reason why it shouldn’t continue.  Each new guardian is carefully chosen for their integrity, honesty, loyalty, faithfulness, and discretion.”

“You chose me.”

“You sound surprised.”

“You don’t know me.”

Father Anthony sipped his whisky and chuckled.  “Inspector Lewis, we’ve been watching you since the day James asked to be your sergeant.  You’ve been a blessing to us, and to James.  You embody everything we seek.”

Lewis silently reached for the bottle and refilled his glass.  “What would be expected of me?”

 


	23. 20 January – Monday

 

Lewis hunched over his toast.  Robbins had gone, and PC Keith was on the couch with a coffee and the _Oxford Mail_.  It had been after eleven when Father Anthony had left and Lewis still didn’t have the answers he sought.  Lying awake until nearly 3am hadn’t helped.

He did have some understanding of what his role might be, but a great deal would depend on how involved James wanted him to be.

“The role of no two guardians has been quite the same, though all have been protectors in one form or another.  James’s first guardian took it upon himself to be a father figure.  According to the records, James had some rather strong words to say on the matter and no guardian has made that same mistake.  I’m James’s primary guardian, but all that means is I’ll bear the burden of helping him establish a new identity when the time comes – and it is when, never if.  Were you to accept the position, I feel confident in stating you would have a far greater role in his life than any of the previous guardians or myself.  James trusts you completely.”

 _Burden._ Lewis noticed the word immediately.  Did the other guardians also see James as something to be borne?  He wouldn’t be a burden to Lewis.  Not having James around would be a burden too great to bear.

“You said you’ve known James since 1973.”

“Not quite correct.  I’ve officially been his primary guardian since 1973.  I first met James many years earlier in Cambridge.  I was an undergraduate, he a tutor.  I learnt of James’s condition in much the same way you did.  We were in a motor vehicle accident and I saw him impaled on the steering column, and then he was gone.  I woke up in hospital a week later to see James at my bedside.  He was in the company of a priest, who I was later to learn was his guardian.  Neither of them knew for certain what I’d seen until I woke.  Long story short: I was deemed suitable and trustworthy, and James had no objections to my being brought into the fold, so to speak.  I wasn’t made a guardian then – I was too young, too inexperienced.”

“What would have happened if you hadn’t made the grade?”

Father Anthony gave a wry smile.  “James would have disappeared and become someone else somewhere else – as he was to do a few years later – and I would have been discredited and ridiculed if I’d tried to tell what I knew.  We don’t mess around with those who threaten James.”

“Do you know who’s trying to kill him?”  It was a long shot.

“No.  We’re not omniscient.  Our information is only as good as James’s memory in that regard.  Sometimes he can describe his death in great detail; other times, however…  James has no recall of the day in the woods, and he never saw who shot at him outside his flat, nor the car.  If we knew who it was, we would have found a way to deliver them to you.”

Father Anthony was willing to answer any questions about himself and the Lodge, but the questions Lewis really wanted answered were for James himself.  Lewis chose not to ask Father Anthony about James’s life, though he was certain the man would know the truth.  It would have been disrespectful to James.

When they found themselves beginning to go in circles, Father Anthony had taken his leave, and Robbins had returned inside the flat.  Lewis had gone to bed and failed to sleep.

 

**********

 

Lewis arrived at work to signs James was somewhere in the building.  His coat hung on its hook and an empty cardboard coffee cup sat at the side of his keyboard.  Lewis checked his in-tray and his email for any assigned actions from Laxton.  He needed something to stop himself going in circles in his head.  Nothing.  Because they were confined to the station, there was little they could pick up, or nothing Laxton felt warranted the attentions of a highly experienced DS and DI.  He left the office with a disgusted huff.  He might not be able to assist with searches or door-to-door enquiries, but he could answer a phone and free up a PC to get outside.  God help Laxton if she tried to stop him.

He ran square into James who rushed around the corner from the stairs.

“Hold up, lad.  Where’s the bloody fire?”

“I was coming to get you.”

“You could have called.”

“Your mobile went to voicemail and I’m guessing you were already out of the office when I called there.”  James turned and headed back down the stairs he’d come charging up.

Lewis followed him.  “Voicemail?”

“Is your phone switched on?”

“I don’t turn the bloody thing off.”

“Is it charged?”  James turned at the bottom and headed towards the incident room.

 _Shit_.  With Father Anthony’s words buzzing in his head, Lewis had forgotten to attach it to the charger when he’d gone to bed.  He vaguely remembered a low battery warning when he’d turned the alarm off, and hadn’t given it another thought.  “No.”

James pushed through the door.  The room was humming with activity, and Laxton was standing with the station’s senior forensics officer.

“Did James tell you?” Laxton asked.

Lewis raised a querying eyebrow at James. 

“The bullet which killed Caulfield matched the other murders and there was no weapon found in the locked room.”

“One gun, one killer.”  Laxton looked relieved.

Lewis shook his head.  “I don’t trust that theory.  This is an organised group.  A group,” he emphasised.  “Passing one weapon between several people is a clever way to muddy the waters.  All you need is one person to slip up and leave a single print, and the others have a chance of getting away.”

“We have a single print,” Laxton said smugly.

“On what?  I wasn’t aware anyone had found a weapon.”

“No weapon, Inspector.”  The forensic officer showed him a series of photographs.  “We found a partial fingerprint in blood baked onto the back of Susan Brayden’s watch which doesn’t belong to Susan Brayden.”

“Why wasn’t it found before?”

“No-one was looking for it.  Not there.”

“How does a print get there if it’s not the victim’s?  And baked on blood?”

“The watch was on a stretch band.  We think whoever shot Ms Brayden got blood on their fingers and it seeped into the grooves between the ridges.  When they were moving Ms Brayden, it’s possible the watch itself was turned around and when the killer pushed against it, the blood’s been transferred.  Then the watch was flipped back, trapping the print, and the heat of the fire cooked the blood.”

“But if blood was in the grooves.”  James was looking at his own hands.  “Then don’t you have a negative of the print?  So you need to match the white space, not the actual print image?”

“Yes!”  The scientist was delighted with James.  Lewis was rather impressed too.  The scientist sobered quickly.  “Unfortunately, the impression is a bit blurred so we’re going to have to clean up the image we have, and then reverse it to produce a searchable print.  We can do it, and the print will stand up in court; it’s just going to take us a bit longer.”

“If you haven’t done all that yet, how can you be sure it’s not her print?” Lewis asked.

“The print on the watch has a very distinctive tented arch.  None of Susan Brayden’s prints has a matching arch, so we’re confident it’s not hers.”  The forensic officer beamed again.

It was their first solid lead, and the best news Lewis had heard in a week.

 

**********

 

Lewis logged his seventeenth call reporting a sighting of Andrew Caulfield.  According to this particular caller, the man lying in the morgue with a hole in his head was currently punting on the Cherwell.  The clock ticked over 3pm.  His mobile rang.  He listened to the single sentence.  He detached his phone from the charger he’d borrowed, slipped the phone into his pocket, and went over to where James was reviewing CCTV footage from the hotel where Caulfield had been found.

He bent down to James’s ear.  “Innocent wants us.”

“What now?”  James sounded as tired as Lewis was trying to not to show.

“That _other_ matter.”

“What other– Oh.  _That?_ ”

“Are you two up to something I should know about?”  Laxton stood on the other side of James with her hands on her hips and a curious smile.

“Not guilty,” Lewis said.

“Me?” James replied guilelessly.

“Go home when you’re done.”  Laxton followed them to the door.  “The pair of you are yawning so much you’re sending the rest of my team to sleep.”

“Did you not sleep much last night?” Lewis asked James, a bit annoyed with himself for not noticing.

“I had a lot to think about,” James replied softly.  “You?”

“Much the same.”

Innocent’s PA waved them straight through.

“As you know,” Innocent began without preamble, “the Cyber Crimes officer started her investigation today into the altered vehicle ownership records and the issue in the custody suite.  She’s already made some preliminary findings, and a second officer will be joining her tomorrow.”

“Doesn’t sound too good, ma’am.”  Lewis hoped whatever Innocent said next wasn’t in ‘tech-speak’.  Lewis was far more adept than he was given credit for, and could easily understand a great deal, but it was a sad fact many of the station’s IT officers weren’t known for their love of plain English, and he’d even seen James completely at a loss.

“She has determined the changes to the vehicle record were made on a computer within this station, but whoever did it really knew what they were doing, and covered their tracks well.  It was a similar story for the missing emails from the custody suite.  The email account was accessed from another computer in this building.  It may take them another day or so to pin it to a particular computer.  Even then, there’s no guarantee the occupant of the desk is involved – anyone can log into any computer within the station – not to mention the number of shared computers throughout the building.  She lost me when she began talking about how to decode lines.”

“But they’ll find out who it was?”

“She’s confident they’ll be able to bring me a user name.”

 

**********

 

“Today’s ended better than it began,” James commented as he shut down his computer.

Lewis was already waiting by the office door for him.  He took the plunge.

“Can I invite meself for dinner?  I’ll buy.”

Questions had been gnawing at the back of Lewis’s mind all day, and if he didn’t get them out, he didn’t like his chances of getting a decent night’s sleep.  The pub was too public, and at his own flat, it would be too easy for James to get up and walk away.  At the same time, Lewis wanted to be able to leave if it became too uncomfortable for both of them.  He sincerely hoped it wouldn’t come to that.  James had to have some idea of the questions Lewis would have, and Lewis would have to keep his fingers crossed they were both ready for the answers.

James blinked slowly.  “My place?”

“Yeah.  I thought maybe we could invite Dowling and Robbins in for a feed, if that’s all right with you.  Seems a bit rough to have them standing outside all night without a decent meal.”

James nodded.  “Better make it Chinese.  I know Robbins doesn’t like curry or chilli.”

“Doesn’t like curry?  What’s wrong with the man?”

James grimaced.  “I made the mistake of asking that question and received a rather detailed answer.  You don’t want to hear it before you eat.  Trust me.”

 


	24. 20 January – Monday – Night

 

Lewis stopped at the beginning of the short path to James’s flat.  The door had been patched and painted, effectively removing the physical reminder of James’s ‘death’; however, nothing would ever remove the memory from Lewis’s mind.

“When did that happen?” Lewis asked.  James had made no mention of it.

“Must have been today.”  James was as surprised at Lewis.  “The landlord said she was going to get onto it ASAP, and because she didn’t need to go inside I said she didn’t need to let me know.”  He stepped up, opened to the door, and stood to one side to allow Lewis, Robbins, and Dowling to enter.  The two uniformed officers scanned the street as they moved forward.

“Good of her to move so promptly.”  Lewis waited for James to lock the door behind him and then they moved to the kitchen while Dowling and Robbins checked the flat.

James scoffed.  “She’s currently trying to let another flat in the building.  Can’t get a good tenant if you have bullet holes in doors.”

“Not so altruistic then?”  James shook his head.  “Worked in your favour, though.”

“I don’t think I’ll be staying here much longer.”

“Can’t say I blame you.”

James pulled out plates and glasses, and Lewis set the containers of Chinese food out on the breakfast bar, as their ‘bodyguards’ moved into the living area, giving the flat the all clear.

It had only been a few days, but Lewis would be beyond relieved when he and James could once again simply walk into their own flats and relax.

 

**********

 

After clearing up, Dowling and Robbins moved outside, and James and Robbie moved to the couch.

James offered Lewis the remote control.  Lewis cradled it in his hand for a few seconds and then sat it on the coffee table.  He stayed hunched forward with his hands clasped together in front of his knees.  “I’ve nearly made me mind up about the guardian thing.  I have to tell you, I’ve barely slept these past few nights with the questions going through me head, and seeing you dying in my arms every time I closed my eyes.”

James turned towards Lewis and clasped both hands around his.  “I’m so sorry you saw what you did.  I can imagine what you went through–”

“Oh, can you?”  Lewis pulled his hands from James’s hands.  “You’ve had someone you care about die right in front of your own eyes, have you?”

“Yes, I have!” James snapped as he shot to his feet.  Hurt was etched across his face.  “It’s not something I’d wish on…”  He dropped to the chair like a deflated balloon.  “You care about me?”

Lewis felt like a fool.  How could someone have lived over 250 years and not experienced the loss of someone close?  And how could James not know he cared?  Those bloody guardians must have known; why else would Lewis now be in line to be one of them?  Or did caring not come into it?  Was it solely about keeping James’s secret?  Were they hoping James could do something for them?  Was that why they still kept his secret?  _Shit.  More bloody questions._

“Course I bloody care, you daft sod.  You think I let anyone sleep in me bed?”

“Sorry, I…  Thank you.  It means a lot.”  James sat back down.

“Drink?”  Lewis raised the bottle of whisky James had placed on the coffee table along with two glasses.

“Please.”

Lewis poured two large measures.  “What’s kept me awake most is that there are things that make no sense to me, events I know to be fact, if you are who you say you are.”

James raised his glass to his lips.  Lewis half-expected him to drink it down in one swallow.  James took a delicate sip and returned the glass to the table.  “I know, and I’m fairly sure I know what most of them are.  Ask me anything, and I promise to answer as truthfully as possible.”

Lewis shifted on the couch, crossing the leg nearest James over the other, resting his calf across his knee, and turning his body towards James.  “Tell me about Crevecoeur.  You said you were a boy there, but based on what you told me the other night you had to have been an adult.  Tell me how Mortmaigne didn’t see that; tell me how Scarlett and Paul Hopkiss recognised you as the child they’d played with growing up.”

James took several slow breaths and stared off over Lewis’s shoulder.  He took a final deeper breath and met Lewis’s eyes.  “At one point, very early on – you weren’t there – Mortmaigne referred to who he believed to be my parents: ‘they must be so proud,’ he said, and he looked at me as though he was trying to see through me.  For a moment I thought he was going to call me Edward.”

“Edward?”

James held up one finger, a signal to wait.  He rose in one smooth movement, walked over to the tallest bookcase, and retrieved an old photo album from on top.  James sat down and carefully turned the pages.  It was an older style album, with heavy black pages interleaved with embossed vellum.  The photographs were held in place with translucent photo corners.  Lewis hadn’t seen an album like it since he’d stayed at his gran’s as a wee boy.

Each page held one or two photographs.  Underneath each was a handwritten caption.  The early pages were in James’s cursive; further in, the nearly indecipherable script gave way to the same neat block capitals Lewis had seen on many of James’s hand-written forms.  Lewis was too far away, and James turned the pages too quickly, for Lewis to have a chance to read any of the captions properly, but he caught a date here and there.  1895.  1906.  A moustached man in uniform dated 1916.  Another man in a different uniform dated 1941.

James stopped and ran his fingers tenderly over the image on the page.  “This album has travelled with me for over a hundred years.  Sometimes I’ve packed it; sometimes a guardian has had to travel to retrieve it.  Apart from my memories, it’s all I really have.”  He turned the album around and passed it to Lewis.  “How old do I look?”

Lewis studied the image.  It was a fun, relaxed family portrait, mother, father, and son at the top of a mountain somewhere.  They looked happy, and Lewis smiled in spite of himself.  “Sixteen, maybe seventeen,” he said quietly.

“It was taken in 1994 when we took a trip to Scotland during the summer break.  My son was fifteen, nearly sixteen.”

The album slipped in Lewis’s hands and hit the coffee table.  “Y…your son?”

James gave a slight nod.

Lewis felt his breath come in small gasps.  “This… the boy… the boy is you.  He’s your double.  A younger mini-you,” he managed to stammer out.  “The man… he’s nothing like you.”

“Try to picture him with blonde hair, and clean shaven.”

Lewis took a deep breath to steady himself.  He closed his eyes, and tried to clear his mind.  Exhaling slowly, he opened his eyes and focussed on the image.  Those eyes.  The nose, the overall shape of the face.  “Dear God,” he said on a breath.

“That similarity, that’s the sole reason I could come back to Oxford when I did; why I could be James Hathaway, recent Cambridge graduate, failed seminarian, and now a detective sergeant.  Why no-one who knew my son has ever questioned who I am.”

Lewis was torn between disbelief and anger.  “You’re pretending to be your son?  That’s… Why?  What if your son turns up in Oxford?  How are you…?  Oh, Christ.”  The realisation hit Lewis like a freight train.  “Your boy’s dead, isn’t he?”

James released a shuddering breath.  “His name was also James.  In July 2001, he went to New York.  It had always been his mother’s dream to see the city one day, but we’d never had the chance, so he decided to do it for her.  He called me once in August, and I never heard from him again.”

Lewis released a slow breath, and asked, “September 11?”

James nodded.  “It took the guardians four months to find out anything.  He was supposed to be travelling, but his visa also allowed him to take temporary work.  They learnt he’d started a four-week contract on the third of September as part of the cleaning company in the North Tower of the World Trade Centre.  He was scheduled to work from 6am to midday on the 95th and 96th floors.  So far, no trace of him has been found that we know of, though every advance in DNA technology increases the possibility.”

“The night we had the call-out to Carl Brayden, there was a small item on the late news saying one of these developments had allowed them to produce DNA profiles for six previously unidentified remains.  One had yet to be matched to any family on the database.  I still don’t understand why I did it, but I rang Father Anthony and I asked if I should submit a DNA sample under an alias.  I foolishly thought I could claim to be a half-brother.  He told me, and not for the first time, that I couldn’t; even if they were to make a partial match, it might be enough to reveal I was biologically the unknown person’s father.  I’d be risking exposure.  That's why I'd had a couple of drinks.  It was pointless – it wouldn’t change anything – but I was… I felt useless.”

“Is there anyone else who could have submitted a sample?  Even a distant cousin would be better than nothing.”

James shook his head.  “I have no living family, and Elizabeth had been adopted; she never knew her biological family and trying to trace them, then or now, would raise so many questions.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Why?”

“You might have been...”  Lewis exhaled softly.  “You can never really lay your son to rest, even if they were to find and identify something, can you?”

“Would you believe he was mine?  Even with DNA evidence?”

“I suppose not.  I’d think someone had mucked up the tests.”

“And as Father Anthony reminded me, it would only take one overly-curious person to start digging deeper and begin asking hard questions to make my life as James Hathaway impossible.”

Lewis took a sip of whisky, letting the warm liquid slip off the back of his tongue and down his throat.  “Your boy, there was no chance he…?  Could he have…?”

“Was he born immortal?”  Lewis nodded.  James hunched forward.  “We – the guardians and I – wondered the same thing.  They looked for nearly a year, scouring all forms of media for reports of an unidentified young man popping up somewhere.  They found nothing.  If by some miracle he did survive, he’s never returned to England.”

Lewis looked back at the photograph.  He didn’t have to imagine how he’d feel if either of his children were taken from him so brutally.  “How did his mother take the news?”

“She never knew.  Elizabeth passed away a month after that photo was taken.  She collapsed one night as we were climbing the stairs to bed.  It was a burst aneurysm.  We didn’t know it was there.”

Lewis wanted to rewind the clock, to erase his earlier outburst.  It wasn’t just the potential priest in James that made him tiptoe around Lewis whenever Val’s death came up; and it was no wonder James had been so careful, so wary telling him about Simon Monkford.  James was walking in Lewis’s shoes.  Lewis carefully placed the album on the coffee table, and moved closer to James.

“Can you tell me about them?” he asked gently.

James stared at his hands.  “What would you like to know?”

“How you met?  How you ended up at Crevecoeur?”

James picked up his glass and began to swirl it gently.  “I’d been teaching English at a private boys’ school in British Columbia.  I’d been there for fifteen uneventful, unremarkable years.  One day, a former student arrived at the school with his son.  He looked at me, and remarked that I hadn’t aged a day since he’d left, and had I made a pact with the devil.  I finished the school year and then resigned.  I returned to Oxford where I met up with Father Anthony again – I don’t know if I mentioned we have a past?”

“You haven’t, but I know.  I owe you an apology; I didn’t tell you Father Anthony came to see me last night.”

“I see.  He said he was considering it.  I had hoped he’d tell me when so I could let you know beforehand.  I’m sorry if he disturbed you.”

“It was fine.  I think I’m glad he did.  It gave me a hell of a lot more to think about in terms of meself, but it was mostly useful.”

James nodded.  “He told you about Cambridge?”

“Yeah.  Nasty way to go.”

“Did he tell you I was driving and I was drunk?”

“No.”  Lewis was horrified.

“It was the first and last time.  And I’ve thanked God countless times that no-one else was killed.”

“Hell of a way to learn a lesson.”

“Yes.”

They were off track.  “You came back to Oxford,” Lewis prompted.

“Father Anthony met me off the ship in Southampton.  It was good to see him.  He told me the guardians had already found a position they thought I might like – Estate Manager at Crevecoeur.  I’d had experience with horses, and I’d worked on large properties in the past so it wasn’t unreasonable, and I was ready for something more physical.”

“Are you trying to say keeping a bunch of school age boys in line wasn’t physically demanding?”

James gave a small laugh.  “Nobody really expected the English Master to run around the playing field.  Lord Mortmaigne had contacts within the Lodge, which is how the guardians knew about the vacancy.  They used their influence to ensure I was the front-runner, but I had to have an interview with Mortmaigne to secure it.  He reminded me of men my father had associated with; it was a little disorienting at first, but I treated him as I would have treated my father’s peers.  Sometimes flattery _will_ get you everywhere.”

“He was a vain man?”

“You met him.”  Lewis nodded.  “He liked people who acknowledged his… power.  I found myself installed in Lodge Farm within the week, and I met Elizabeth at an estate party to celebrate his Lordship’s fortieth birthday a month later.  She was beautiful.”

James’s expression captured Lewis.  It was one he’d seen many times in his own mirror, that of a man who had loved deeply and lost painfully.

“Elizabeth was Mortmaigne’s secretary, and she also managed the household accounts.  We kept our relationship secret for quite a while as there’d been a bit of an uproar when Lady Mortmaigne’s maid had eloped with one of the gardeners; we finally married in 1977.  Two days before our first anniversary, Elizabeth went into a very rapid labour.  Thankfully, when you’ve been around a while you pick up a thing or two, and I helped to deliver our son before the ambulance arrived.”

Love and pride radiated from James.  Lewis was in quiet shock.

“We named him James Edward.  My father had been James Edward, as I was, though for a long time I’d been using Edward.  James was always James, except to his mother; Elizabeth was the only one allowed to call him Jamie.  As he grew, he was my double in features, colouring, and build.  Not that anyone else apart from his mother noticed properly.  People would point out he had my eyes and nose, but I’d been dying my hair and beard dark brown for many years.  Elizabeth knew I was really a blonde.”

“Did she know… everything?”

“No.  I told her I dyed my hair because I couldn’t bear to look like my father.  She accepted that without question.”

“Why didn’t you tell her about… you know?”

“I was afraid I’d lose her.  I knew our happiness couldn’t last forever, but I wanted as long as I could get.  The guardians weren’t happy with me.  They didn’t want us to marry.  ‘It can only end with your death,’ they said.”

“But it didn’t.”

“No.”  James refilled his glass.  “It wasn’t always easy on the estate.  Mortmaigne could be unpredictable, and he’d change estate rules on a whim.  People were fired for the most trumped up reasons, losing their job and home.  There were stories of domestic violence, though I never saw anything, and I know if Elizabeth had – if she’d seen anything amiss – she certainly would have mentioned it, and we wouldn’t have stayed there.  We had a happy home, and that balanced out a lot of the politicking and power games that went on.”

“James went to school and played with the other children on the estate; they were a close group for a while.  However, over time, the dynamics started to change, and when James won a scholarship to Melton Hall School in Buckinghamshire, we made plans to leave Crevecoeur.  We moved a month before the beginning of term, and cut all ties.  I took a job as a groundskeeper, and Elizabeth found work with a small law firm.”

“James buried his head in his books.  At the beginning of the following year, he met Will McEwan.  It seemed a strong friendship, and then one day, unexpectedly, James said he and Will weren’t friends anymore.  I later learned Will’s parents had moved him to another school, but I didn’t find out what had happened until a while later.”

“In the summer of 1994, we took that trip to Scotland.  It was the first real family holiday we’d ever had.  One night, James came to our room.  He said he had something he had to tell us, and he’d understand if we wanted to cast him out.  He told us he believed he was gay.  Elizabeth's love for him never wavered.  If anything, she loved him more.  And I, who had shared beds with both men and women in the days before I was changed–”  James gave a wry grin at Lewis's startled exclamation.  “–I know you've wondered; there's the truth of it – I could no more judge James than myself that night.”

“The following day, in confidence, he told me why he’d fallen out with Will.  I know the guilt wracked him, and I know he did apologise to Will, after a fashion, but their friendship was forever tainted.  James told me then he planned to go into the priesthood, that it was the only way he could deal with his ‘affliction,’ as he called it.  I’d converted to Catholicism when I married Elizabeth, and James had been raised Catholic.  I still wonder how different things could have been if we…”

James emptied his glass.  “After we got back from Scotland, Elizabeth started to complain of headaches and dizziness.  She went to the doctors and was booked in for a CT scan – CAT scan, as it was called then.”

As Lewis watched, James seemed to shrink into himself.

“The night before the scan... well, you know.”  James fell silent.  Lewis stayed quietly at his side.  James picked up the photo album and turned the page.  “James buried himself in his studies and became very active in the church, both at school and in the village.  He excelled, and went on to win a scholarship to Cambridge.”

“I moved closer to Cambridge, so James could have somewhere to come if College life ever became a bit overwhelming.  He never came during term, but always stayed with me during the breaks.  Sadly, without Elizabeth, we drifted apart.  I stayed near Cambridge when James went away to the seminary.  He was too old for me to be following him around the country.”

“I didn’t see him for over a year, not until Will sought him out, and together they came to me.  Will hoped I’d tell James he was wrong.  That there was nothing wrong with his love for Feardorcha.  He and James argued in front of me.  I watched my son hammer his former friend with theology and doctrine, and I did nothing to stop him.  Then I compounded the sin.”

“You?”

“I told Will exactly what I told you I told him.  That it was an abomination.  Like a complete idiot, I pointed out James had chosen celibacy, and that was the only way forward for Will.  I could have been a voice of reason.  Instead, I condemned Will with my words and I lost my son’s trust.  I did truly believe what I was saying, and I helped send Will on the path of self-destruction.”

“Why?”  Lewis was genuinely puzzled.  “You said you had…”

“Because, despite my years and my experiences, I truly believed it was wrong.  Before I was… changed, my life was debauched, to put it mildly.  After the events in the temple, I took what had happened to me to be a judgement on my former life, and believed I had been given this chance to atone for my sins.  My family had been staunch Protestant, so I read Theology at Oxford, and was eventually given charge of a small, now non-existent parish.  I believed if I could control my own thoughts and desires, and guide others that way, perhaps God would forgive me and I would one day die and never again walk this earth.  I held on to that belief until the day I lost my son.  After that I reached the conclusion that what would be, would be, and I could no more influence God by continuing to lie to myself than I could have my family back.”

James poured himself a small measure.

“I don’t know exactly what happened next, but within a few months, James had left the seminary and was heading for New York.  My coming back to Oxford was Father Anthony’s suggestion.  The chance for a new beginning, and a new path, he said.  So,” James said emphatically, “to all intents and purposes, James Hathaway left the seminary under a cloud, travelled for a year or so, then popped up in the Graduate Entry Program for the Oxford Police.  And for the first time in over sixty years, I was once again blonde, clean shaven, and James.”

“What about all the paperwork on your file?  Aren’t you the least bit worried someone will find out the truth?  You do work in a police station.”

“None of the documents are forgeries.  We were both born James Edward Hathaway, and I do have a theology degree – actually, I have two – so if someone tried to test me, they wouldn’t catch me out.  It also helped that neither of us had ever had our fingerprints taken.  As for my past, it wasn't a great task for the guardians to have James Edward the elder declared dead, and a new headstone placed on Elizabeth's grave, with my ashes supposedly dug into the ground.”

“James, that's just bloody morbid.”

“It is a bit.  What’s even more morbid is that there are four other graves around the world where I’m ‘buried.’  Now I'm living the life my son couldn't.  It's not what he would have chosen, but I’d been a priest and wanted to do something different.  I want to think, regardless of what James finally chose to do, that he would have found happiness.”

“Are you happy?”

“I’m happier than I ever thought I would be again.”  James pushed back against the couch, tilting his head to the ceiling.

“Oi,” Lewis said softly.

“Hmmm?”  James turned his head towards Lewis.

“I know you and your boy could have been twins, but... your scar?”  Lewis unconsciously reached out to trace the deep mark on James's chin.  “Surely that would have raised questions, with Scarlett and Hopkiss at least, even if they only asked what you’d done.  Or did they, and that was something else I missed?”

A small, sad smile flickered across James's face.  “James fell out of a tree when he was eleven.  He was bloody lucky the only injury he sustained was a split chin.  The scar left behind wasn't exactly like mine, but physical scars change as children grow and develop.  It was in roughly the same spot, so...”

“How'd you get yours?”  Lewis's fingers traced the line again.  He was aware he was most definitely crossing a line, but the physical reality of James grounded Lewis at this moment.

“I fell off a horse when I was twenty.  Blind drunk, which was probably the only thing that spared me from greater injury.”  James snorted softly, a sound filled with regret.  “I thought I was immortal, and was racing my brother from the gate house to the manor–”

“Manor?”

James sighed gently.  “Our father was a man of wealth and power.  Most bankers at the time were.  All of which was lost when there was no immediate heir to assume the title upon his death.”

“Title?”

“Lost, long forgotten, and of little interest to the world at large.  Most of the land became an industrial estate.”

“No wonder you knew how to charm Mortmaigne.  What happened?  To you and your brother?”

“Shipwreck in the Caribbean.  It was 1780, and we were heading for the family sugar plantation in Barbados.  My brother was to take over the management, and I was to build a church.  I later learnt that all hands were lost at sea.”

“But you... woke up here?  In that room?”

“Yes.  Within a fortnight I was on another ship, this time sailing to Hamburg.”

 


	25. 21 January – Tuesday – Morning

 

Lewis woke with a snuffle.  Opening one eye, he took in his surroundings.  A lamp was lit on a side table, and he was sat awkwardly on James’s couch.  Beside him, James was stretched out, with his head flung back and his stockinged feet propped up on the coffee table.

Two empty bottles stood side by side near James’s feet: one whisky, one red wine.  Lewis didn’t remember the wine being opened but two used glasses beside the whisky glasses testified that he must have had at least one drink.

He didn’t feel hungover; though that could have had a lot to do with the fact his back and legs were reminding him why it wasn’t a good idea to fall asleep sitting up on a couch.  Moving gingerly, Lewis pushed himself into an upright position and carefully tested the movement in his limbs and neck.  He was going to be a bit stiff for most of the day, but he’d be okay, he thought.

Using the arm of the couch, Lewis rocked himself to his feet and stretched. 

Dear God that felt better!

James snored softly.

Beyond the French doors, it was still dark outside.  Lewis blinked until he could read the dial on his watch.  5am.  The flat was still.  Robbins and Dowling must still be outside.

The photo album lay open on the table, safely away from the glasses.  Lewis sat down and pulled it towards him.  It showed James and Elizabeth on their wedding day.  Now Lewis remembered.

As the whisky had seeped its way in, James had started to talk about his wife.  He’d remembered little details, such as the way she would knot his tie whenever he was required to wear one, which in those days wasn’t often.

“Horses don’t care if you wear a tie or not,” James had pointed out.

And he’d recalled the crushing devastation of her loss.

“I promised to love her until death parted us, and I did.  I still do.  I couldn’t protect her; I couldn’t do anything except hold her.”  James had pushed out several large sighs, and a single tear had rolled down his cheek.  “The doctor assured me and James it would have been quick.  I still miss her.  I miss…”  James didn’t finish his thought, instead turning to Lewis and again taking hold of his hand.  “You understand.  You’re the one person I know who truly understands how I feel, and I understand how you feel.  I always have, and I’ve wanted to find a way for you to understand that.”

James had closed his eyes and leant against Lewis’s shoulder, and Lewis had rested his cheek on James’s head.  They must have fallen asleep that way and drifted apart in their sleep.

James slept on.  His snores had subsided to snuffles and his head had lolled to one side.

Lewis picked up the album and sat back on the couch, placing the album on his lap.  He closed it and started to look at the images from the beginning.  If he focussed on the eyes and nose of the tallest man in each image, he could see James.  Sometimes the changes from one image to the next were subtle; other times they were quite dramatic.  Lewis was about halfway through the album.  He was comparing two images, one captioned Paris, the other Edinburgh, when James’s spoke and startled him.

“Good morning.”  James’s head was tipped to one side and he was looking between the album and Lewis’s face.

“James, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”  Lewis dropped his shoulders.  “I did.  I was snooping.”

“It’s not snooping.”  James straightened up with a groan and a wince and moved closer to Lewis.  “You’re curious.  It’s understandable.  If I didn’t want you to look at the album, I wouldn’t have shown you.”

Lewis showed James the current page.  “Sometimes there’s barely a difference.”

“The level of change depends on how likely I am to come into contact with someone who knows me.  With the advances in technology, it’s going to get harder and harder.  It’s why I avoid social media and cameras as much as possible.”

“Do you think there’ll come a day when you can’t reappear?”

“I believe so.”

“What will you do then?”

James sagged into a long sigh.  “I don’t know.  Join a monastery?  Become a hermit?”

 

* * *

 

“Laura!”

She looked for an escape route – an open door or someone she could chase after.  The area was empty.  Bloody hell, it was nearly 10am.  Where was everyone?  Laura fixed a smile on her face and planned her rebuff as Peterson oozed across the floor towards her.  Alan Peterson was handsome and charming.  He dressed well, treated his dates with the utmost respect and courtesy – she knew that from personal experience – and lately he made Laura's skin crawl.

“It’s been a while since we’ve had a chance to chat, Laura.  How have you–”  His phone rang.  “Excuse me.”

Before Peterson turned his back on her, the first thing Laura noticed was the expression of near hatred on his face when he looked at his phone display.  The second was the phone itself.  It wasn’t the iPhone he’d been using the week before when he’d interrupted her post mortem briefing to book an appointment for a massage.  She clearly recalled him talking endlessly about getting the new iPhone barely three months earlier, and wondered why he’d changed it already.  _That man changes his gadgets as often James clears out his desk._   Helen Laxton was right; Peterson was a bloody show pony.

Laura was fascinated to see Peterson’s back tense up as he hissed at whoever was on the phone.  He ended the call abruptly and turned around.  He was paler than James in the middle of winter was, and looked scared, something Laura would never have expected to see on the cocky sod.

“Sorry, Laura…  I, ah…”

“Alan, are you all right?”

“I have to go.”

He pushed his way past her and down the corridor, slamming the door at the end behind him.

 

* * *

 

“Excuse me, Inspector Lewis?”  Julie stood at Lewis’s elbow looking very perturbed.

“Julie?  What’s the matter?” 

“With everything that’s been happening, the silver Audi seemed to be forgotten, but it kept nagging at me so I kept digging.”

Julie’s agitated manner set alarm bells off in Lewis’s mind.  “James, you got a minute?”  James handed back the file he’d been reviewing and joined Lewis and Julie.  “Go on, Julie.”

“The PNC had been changed, but I reasoned whoever did it might not be able to change the original sales records.  There’re half a dozen Audi Centres within a thirty-mile radius of Oxford, so I contacted them with the VIN number and asked them to check their records.  I’ve just got an email back with a copy of the original sales record attached, and…”

“And?”

She handed Lewis a single sheet of paper.  Lewis read the customer details and passed it to James.

“Good work, Julie.  Keep this to yourself for now.  We’ll take it to Innocent.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

* * *

 

Jean Innocent ushered a very agitated Helen Laxton into her office.

“Helen, whatever is the matter?”

“It’s the print result from Susan Brayden’s watch.”

“Forensics has a result already?”

“Now, they’ve told me there is a margin for error because of the way they had to recover the print, but–”

Jean lightly took hold of Helen’s wrist.  “Do we have a name, Helen?”

“Alan Peterson.”

Jean was certain she’d misheard.  “Alan Peterson.  As in DI Alan Peterson?” _Oh, for God’s sake, Robbie and James were right?_

Helen nodded.  “It’s an eighty five per cent match.  It’s enough, and it will stand up in court if necessary.”

“Does anyone else know about this, apart from forensics?”

“Possibly.  Most likely.”

“Who?”

“We’re trying to determine that.”

“Explain.”

“The senior tech put the recovered print into the system last night and let it run.  It was still running whenshe came in this morning.  She went to a meeting at nine and it was still searching.  She got back just after ten to find the result on the screen and a printout already on the printer.  It doesn’t print automatically.”

“Who else was supposed to be in the lab?  Evidence shouldn’t be left like that.”

“They’re short-staffed – two-thirds of the lab either has the flu or a stomach virus – and we’re all running around demanding results, so they do what they have to.”

“Do we have any idea where Peterson is?”  Jean reached for the phone and called her PA.  “Amy, get me DI Peterson.”

“His bike’s not in the car park, but it was there when I came in at eight.”

“Shit.”

“Sir, you can’t go in there!”  Amy’s voice rang from the outer office and Lewis and James burst through the door.

“I hope you have a good excuse for this intrusion, gentlemen.”

“Peterson’s involved.  We don’t know exactly how, but he is.”

“I know.”  Innocent was gutted.

“You know?  How?”

“Ma’am?”  Amy stepped into the office.  “DI Peterson was witnessed leaving the station shortly after ten and he’s not picking up his calls.”

“Damn it!  Helen, get the Pro-Active Team out to Peterson’s house, and a full SOCO team.  And send out an All Ports Warning.”  Laxton was on the phone before she was out the door.

“Ma’am?”  Lewis and James were looking at her in astonishment.

“The print on Susan Brayden’s watch has come back as a match to Peterson.”

“There’s no doubt?”

“With an eighty-five per cent match?  Not much.  What do you have?  I assume you didn’t burst in on a whim.”

“He’s also the owner of the Audi.  Julie Lockhart used her initiative after I dropped the ball on it, and traced it by the VIN number back to the dealer; their sales record lists Peterson at his current address.  Whoever changed the ownership details didn’t change enough data.  If I’d been paying attention–”

“Robbie, we all made a mistake in not continuing to pursue the Audi angle.  I’d hoped the Cyber Crimes unit would have had a result quicker than this.  Best case scenario: what they find matches what we know.”

“And now Peterson’s done a runner?”

“It looks that way.”

“Bastard.”

“I have a few more choice words I’d like to say to him.”

“Sir?  Ma’am?”  James’s brow was creased in deep thought.

“What is it, James?”  Jean felt her stomach knot.

“Sir…  When you interviewed Beth Jamieson, you asked her about Susan Brayden’s timekeeping.”

Lewis’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

“Robbie?”  Jean reached for the back of a chair to steady herself.  This wasn’t good.

“It completely slipped my mind.  According to her housemate, Susan Brayden didn’t wear a watch, ma’am.  She relied on her phone.”

 

* * *

 

Sergeant Baker directed his team to block all access off the property.  Peterson’s distinctive motorcycle was trapped, making it impossible for him to escape that way.  Peterson walked out of the garage at the side of the detached house as the first car spilled its black-clad occupants on to the footpath.

Peterson ran as soon as he spotted them, almost falling as he dodged an outstretched arm.  He was heading for a laneway.

A black, growling streak flew past Baker, followed by a tall, lean figure in a stab vest.

Before he reached the laneway himself, Baker heard a pained howl and the excited growling of Jet the German shepherd.  Turning the corner Baker was greeted with the sight of Peterson grimly holding onto the top of a side fence, while Jet held Peterson’s ankle firmly in his jaws and tugged backwards.

Peterson’s grip broke first, and he landed face first on the ground with a heavy thwack.  Jet was on his back in a second.  Yelling and writhing, Peterson tried to lash out, but the dog’s reflexes were faster.  Two sharp nips had Peterson curling into a ball.  Two officers grappled with Peterson, pulling his hands behind his back in an attempt to cuff him.  In the end, it took three officers to restrain and hold him.  He was furious, which wasn’t surprising.  In Baker’s experience, very few arrestees were accepting of the situation.

“On your feet.”  Baker pulled on Peterson’s arm.

“You’ve got the wrong man!”  Peterson glared wildly.

“On your feet,” Baker ordered.  He gave a short nod to the officers behind Peterson, who hauled him upright.

“I’ve been set up!”

“Alan Peterson, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of–”

Peterson lunged at Baker.  Jet lunged at Peterson and sent him sprawling back against the officers behind him.

Baker continued.  “On suspicion of the murder of Susan Brayden, Paul Murray, Evan Graves, and Andrew Caulfield, and the attempted murder of James Hathaway.  You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court.  Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

“The print can’t be mine!”  Peterson fought against the grip of the tactical officers as they manhandled him into the back of one of the cars.  At the same time, Baker saw Laxton arrive with a SOCO team in tow.

 

* * *

 

Turning her back on Peterson’s house, Helen Laxton scanned the quiet street.  Three cars, lights still flashing, blocked off the footpath.  An officer was walking the front perimeter of the property unreeling blue and white police tape, marking out the property boundaries.  On the street to either side of the scene, uniformed officers kept onlookers away.

Curtains twitched in the houses across the road.  In this low crime area, this was probably the most intriguing event in years.

She turned as Sergeant Baker approached her from the furthest car.  “He’s been cautioned?”

“Yes, ma’am.  He tried to run, but Jet got him.  I don’t think he’ll need stitches, though.”

“Jet?”  Laxton looked for the near-black German Shepherd.

“No, ma’am.”  Baker laughed.  “Jet’s too quick for the likes of him.  Peterson resisted and Jet fought back.”

“Has Peterson said anything?”

“‘You’ve got the wrong man, I’ve been set up; the print can’t be mine.’”

“He knew about the print?”

Baker nodded.  “I don’t think he was exactly surprised to see us, either.”

Laxton paused.  _He’d expected them?_   “Thank you, sergeant.”  She stuck her head inside the car.  The young PC was practically sitting on Peterson as she tried to fasten the seat belt around him.

“Anything you’d like to say, Mr Peterson?”  He glared at her.  “Sergeant Baker’s said you claim you were set up.”  Peterson grunted.  “Who’s set you up?”  Laxton’s phone rang.  She cancelled the call without looking at the display and put the phone on silent.

“I never touched Susan Brayden.”

The PC clicked the seatbelt in place with a grunt of triumph and clambered backwards out of the vehicle.  Laxton perched on the end of the back seat.  It brought her to Peterson’s eye level.

“Your fingerprint was found on her watch, Mr Peterson.  You must have touched her at some point.”

“The watch and the print were there to set me up.  Ask anyone who knew Susan Brayden – she didn’t wear a watch.”

Laxton’s phone buzzed in her pocket, vibrating against her hip.  “Unfortunately for you, Mr Peterson, most of the people who seemed to know Susan Brayden have turned up dead.  How did you know her?”

“I didn’t…”  He pressed his lips into a thin, tight line.

“You either know her well enough to know she didn’t wear a watch, or you’re attempting to dig your way out of a deep hole by digging deeper.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Then why did you run?”

“I wasn’t running.”

“Sergeant Baker said you were.”

“Sergeant Baker’s a–”

“Careful,” she warned.  “You told Sergeant Baker you were set up.  That’s a pretty good reason to run.”  Peterson stared straight ahead at the seat in front of him.  His hands had clenched into fists.  “I think you’re talking out of your arse, Mr Peterson.  You made a big mistake; you killed a young woman.  But you’ve been caught out, and now you’re trying to lie your way out of it.”

“The print was planted.”  Peterson wouldn’t look at her.

“How did you know we had a match?”  Laxton knew someone had to have printed out the print results.  An accomplice within the station?  That was an unpleasant thought.  Her phone vibrated again.  She slipped it out to check the caller ID.  Innocent.  _Shit._

Peterson’s eyes bored into the back of the seat.

“Alan, the print result didn’t come through until between 9 and 10am today.  It was given to me at quarter past ten.  According to witnesses at the station, you were seen leaving in a hurry shortly after ten, before I had the result.  You told Sergeant Baker the print wasn’t yours:  How did you know we had it?”

“I was set up.”  The murmur was low and dangerous.

Laxton lunged across the seat towards him, her faces stopping scant inches from his.  “If that’s true, then give me a bloody name.”

“Hooper!  He’s the bastard who’s set me up!” Peterson snapped.

“DC Gordon Hooper?”  Everyone knew Hooper was a follower, not a planner.  “And how would he know it was your print, and what do you mean, _he’s set you up_?”

Peterson’s jaw tightened.  _Christ, that had to hurt._ He’d hunched down the seat and tried to move away – it couldn’t have been easy or comfortable with his hands cuffed and the seatbelt now cutting into his neck.  She wouldn’t get any more out of him now.

Laxton stood up and closed the door, and Peterson was on his way to the station.  Her phone buzzed again.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, I was–”

“Where’s Peterson?”

“In a car on his way back to the station.  He’s claiming he was set up.”

“He may very well have been.”

“Ma’am?”

“We have good reason to believe Susan Brayden didn’t wear a watch; therefore, it would be unlikely she was wearing one the day she died.”

“Oh, God.  Peterson knew she didn’t wear a watch.”

“He told you that?”

She nodded and then realised she couldn’t be seen.  “Yes, and he also knew about the print.”

“Did he say how, or give any idea who he believes could be setting him up?”

“Gordon Hooper.”

“ _Hooper?_   Are you sure?  DC Hooper?”

“Well, he said Hooper, and he didn’t deny it when I asked if he was referring to Gordon.”

“I’ve sent Robbie and James out to you.  As soon as they arrive, I want you back here.”  Innocent’s voice faded in and out.  Laxton assumed she was moving around her office.  “I’ve assigned Julie Lockhart to check the CCTV and security logs for Forensics, and I’ll see if someone can locate Hooper so we can get this cleared up.”

“You don’t really believe Hooper could be involved?”  Laxton considered the plodding detective.  The man volunteered at a homeless shelter twice a month, he was on his parish council, and until a year ago he had been a scout leader.

“I’m not prepared to take anything for granted, Helen.  Peterson could be a victim, or he could just be very, very clever.  Robbie brought in proof Peterson owns a silver Audi A8 that matches the registration of the vehicle reported in Oakley.  Best case scenario, someone’s out to destroy Peterson’s career and reputation; worst case, he’s in this up to his eyeballs.”

“Jesus Christ.”  Laxton closed her eyes.  “SOCO have gone into Peterson’s house, so I suppose we’ll know something sooner or later.  I still can’t imagine Hooper’s involved.”

“We should know more soon.  I don’t think it’ll take long to find out where Hooper’s been.”

The call ended abruptly.  As Laxton turned to enter the house and oversee the search, Lewis’s car pulled up and she jogged over to meet them.

Lewis and James got out of the car, their eyes taking in every detail.

Laxton nodded towards the car.  “I see you still have your bodyguards.”  Two PCs, one tall and solid, the other long and lean – and both unexpectedly armed – exited the car.

“Constable Keith, the driver, is mine; Hathaway here’s got Stephens.”  Lewis emitted a fed-up sigh.

“Are they supposed to be your stunt doubles as well?  All you’d have to do is dye your hair, James.”  She smiled when both men rolled their eyes in unison.  “Been told that already?”  They nodded as one.

“What’s the situation?” Lewis asked.

She clasped her hands together.  “Peterson’s on his way in and, as to be expected, he’s not a happy chap.  He did know about the print, so we know why he ran, and he’s also claiming he was set up, so I won’t be surprised if he’s bleating for a solicitor.”

“He knew about the watch and the print?”

“Yes.  Curiously, he told me Susan Brayden didn’t wear a watch, which Jean confirmed just before you got here.”

“Ah, Innocent called you?”

“Yeah.  Between that and owning that silver Audi, It’s not looking good for Peterson.”  She shook her head.  “I’d better go; Innocent’s expecting me.  SOCO are already inside.  I’ll see you back at the station.”  Laxton took a breath and paused.

“Something else?”  Lewis waited.

“Ah, no.  I’ll see you later.”  She saw no point in mentioning Hooper’s name if this turned out to be a case of Peterson being a dick again.  It was well known there was no love lost between Hooper and Peterson, though Laxton had never found out what had set them against each other.

 

* * *

 

Peterson wriggled around on the back seat in a vain attempt to find a more comfortable position.  With his hands cuffed together in his lap, he had no way to balance himself.  When the car cornered sharply at one point, he’d found himself leaning awkwardly, unable to right himself.  The strange angle caused the cuffs to twist and dig into his wrists.

_If I’ve done anything that’ll…_

Christ, could he have been any more stupid?  Why the fuck did Laxton have to keep pushing?  JESUS!  What the fuck possessed him to say Hooper’s name, of all people?  And to Laxton!  God, who was he kidding?  It wouldn’t have mattered who it was.  His only hope was that Laxton would keep her bloody mouth shut until she got back to the station.  He could take the accusation back.  Try to get himself out of an even bigger hole.

Peterson gagged and willed his body to obey.  He was not going to throw up in the back of a police car like some drunken lout picked up on a Friday night.  The half-lean of his body and the pressure of the seatbelt weren’t helping him though.

“Oh, God, what have I done?” he moaned softly.

 


	26. 21 January – Tuesday – Afternoon

 

Lewis pulled on the scene suit and watched Laxton drive away.  James, who with his nearly non-existent hips always found the suits easier to get into, was dressed and holding two pairs of gloves.

“If the watch and print were planted...”  James passed one pair of gloves to Lewis.  “By whom and why?”

Lewis snapped on the gloves.  “Someone who knows what Petersonn’s been up to and wants to make sure he doesn’t get away, I’d say.”

“Or someone deflecting attention away from themselves?”

“Possibly.  I’ll be interested to see what Cyber Crimes produce.”

“Same.”  James’s brow wrinkled.  “How did Peterson know about the watch and the print?  He wasn’t around when we were told about them, and if he was in some way involved, why didn’t he leave Oxford before she was found?”

“With everything going on he’d need a bloody good reason to suddenly disappear.”

“He was gone for a couple of days after Murray was killed.”  James’s tone made it crystal clear he believed Peterson was in some way responsible.

“Did you see his motorcycle afterwards?”  James shook his head.  “He’d obviously come a cropper recently.  Massive scrapes down one side and the side case was damaged.”

“You specifically went and had a look, didn’t you?”

“Looked around it twice.  All the damage was on one side and fits with the injury to his leg.  You trust him less than I do; I’m surprised you didn’t go and have a look.”

“I had other things on my mind.” James said quietly.

Lewis lightly gripped James’s elbow.  “I suppose you did.”  He waved a hand towards the front door.  “After you.”

James didn’t move.  “But how did Peterson know about the print?  If you planted evidence to stitch someone up, you wouldn’t warn him or her, would you?  You’d want them arrested.”

“Unless you had a reason for making them run.”

James started towards the door.  “Such as?”

“Expose them; force their hand so they make a mistake; and anyone who runs automatically looks guilty.”

“If Peterson’s involved, I can’t see him as anything less than a leader, can you?”

Lewis shook his head.  “Doesn’t seem his style to follow.”

He followed James through the unremarkable front door of an ordinary home in a street that could be found in the better areas of any large English city or town.  He stepped into a carpeted hallway, and found himself facing a flight of stairs.  That’s where ordinary ended.  Walking slowly through the house, James let out a low whistle beside him.

“This house belongs in Summertown.”  Astonishment coloured James’s voice.  “You’re not going to find an Ikea flat pack or Allen key in here.”

The rooms could have featured in _House and Garden_.  They were immaculate, and furnished far beyond the means of a Detective Inspector.  Two SOCO officers were systematically pulling the front room apart, while Lewis could hear others moving around upstairs.

“Sir?”

The white clad officer stood in front of a tall corner cabinet.  The upper half was glazed and behind the glass were a variety of plates.  From behind the single door at the bottom, the officer had removed a steel box.

“Georgian mahogany cabinet, Astragal glazing, from around 1790,” James murmured.

“Show off,” Lewis responded.  “I suppose you had one just like it.”

“I had a pair, but mine never came with accessories like that.”

The officer held the box open.  Inside lay a handgun, spare magazines, and ammunition.

“It’s a Walther P99, sirs.”

 

* * *

 

Peterson sat upright in the chair on the wrong side of the interview room table.  “I want a solicitor, and not one of the police solicitors: my solicitor.  His details are in my wallet.  Browning’s the name.”

“We’ll get someone to contact him.”  Innocent was bitterly disappointed to be looking at one of her own team as a suspect in a murder.  She didn’t always like Peterson, but he was a better than average copper.

Innocent had reviewed Beth Jamieson’s interview and the post mortem reports.

Beth Jamieson had only stated Susan Brayden didn’t wear a watch, not that she didn’t own one.  Jean herself knew several people who only wore a watch on very specific occasions.  Her son owned two and rarely wore them.  Beth Jamieson had been contacted and asked, but she’d been unable to say for certain whether or not Susan owned a watch, only that she’d never seen one.  It still could have been Susan Brayden’s watch.

At the time of the post-mortem, the pathologist in Aylesbury would have assumed the watch found on the body was the victim’s.  They would have had no reason to think otherwise.  When everything was transported down to Oxford, the watch, along with what was left of her clothing and other jewellery, had been bagged and logged as evidence.  Laura’s own report stated she sent those items down to forensics after a visual examination, but she hadn’t opened the bags.  Laura had made a note about an ‘unusual marking’ on the back of the watch face, which had led to the subsequent discovery of the print.

Alan Peterson’s bloody print could have been transferred at some point during either her murder or the disposal of the body, or the print and watch could have been planted on Susan Brayden’s body.  There was still reasonable doubt.

But Peterson had told Laxton Susan didn’t wear a watch.  Did he know Susan Brayden, and if so, how?  What was the connection?

Innocent folded her hands together on the table.  “DI Laxton informs me you believe you’ve been set up by DC Hooper.  That’s a very serious allegation.”

“He…  I didn’t…  I…”

“Did you or did you not accuse Hooper of setting you up?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you have any evidence?”

“I….  I was angry.  I’d been chased, tackled, and bitten.”  It wasn’t far off a snarl.  “I was handcuffed and put into the back of a police car.  I…”

Innocent’s hands clenched together.  “So you lashed out at Hooper, who wasn’t even there,” she said, far more calmly than she felt.  “Alan, the only reason you haven’t been pulled up on harassment and workplace bullying in the past is because Hooper has refused to take action.  This accusation goes beyond the pale.  If Hooper doesn’t choose to proceed with action against you, I will.”

“Ma’am, please, I’m, sorry.  I was… I wasn’t in my right mind.”

“You were in your right mind every other time you tried to tear the poor man down.”

“I know.  I’ve set a shocking example to the junior officers.  I’ll write DC Hooper a formal apology, and if that’s not enough for you, then I’ll report myself for all the previous offences.”

Innocent closed her eyes to think, her mouth pressed in a thin line.  Peterson had crossed a line, accusing a fellow officer of a crime.  However, she had to consider the circumstances.  This wasn’t Peterson attempting to win some sort of popularity competition.  He and Hooper had been prickly with each other at best since Peterson had arrived at the station eighteen months earlier.  He was little more than a playground bully who’d finally been caught out in the biggest lie of his life.  Though most of the school bullies Innocent encountered were after your pocket money, not your career, reputation, or life.

She exhaled softly.  “You understand that the accusation has been made, and we will have to investigate.”

“No, ma’am.  That’s not–”

“I will not leave myself open to an accusation of bias by a solicitor.”

“I won’t say–”

“The accusation was made in the presence of a senior officer, and you have confirmed the offence on record: it will be investigated.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  Peterson hung his head.

“Hooper won’t be informed – at this stage.  However, if I find this is part of a bigger scheme on your part to cause harm to another officer, it will be taken further.  Am I clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

**********

 

Innocent left Peterson under guard in the interview room and headed directly to the incident room.  Laxton was in a huddle with several of her team, no doubt planning a course of action.  Julie Lockhart was huddled in one corner at a desk with two monitors.  Gurdip Sohal was standing behind her, controlling the mouse and pointing at the screen.  Both were frowning.

Laxton walked over as soon as she spotted Innocent.

“Has Peterson said anything?”

Innocent drew her to one side, away from listening ears.  “He’s retracted the claim against Hooper, but to be on the safe side, I think we should run a discreet check on Hooper’s whereabouts this morning.”

Laxton huffed.  “If you’re going to make up a story about another officer stitching you up, surely you’d name someone with the cunning to do it.  If he’d said Hathaway, Lewis, or even Grainger, I might have given his claim a little more credence.  But Hooper?”

“Is it any surprise Peterson would lash out at Hooper when he was cornered?”

“Do _you_ know what the story is between them?”

“Not a clue.  I know Grainger’s tried to find out, but Hooper’s changed the subject every time.”

“Really?  You think he’d say something if he wanted a stop put to it.”

“Makes their feud all the more curious, don’t you think?  For all we know, Peterson could be setting Hooper up as a scapegoat.”

“Now, see that?  That I could believe.”

“Facts first.  What’s happening at the moment?”

“Julie and Gurdip are checking to see who was in and out of Forensics between 9 and 10am.  Since someone must have warned Peterson about the print, I’ve called for the records on his phone and asked for a search for any other numbers that might be connected to him.  We’ll see what pops up.”

Innocent nodded.  “The sooner we know where Hooper’s been, the happier I’ll be.”

“Are you taking Peterson’s claim seriously?”

“Not exactly.  I simply don’t want to see someone like Hooper paying for someone else’s arrogance.  I think you and I should deal with Hooper directly.  The fewer people who know about Peterson’s claim, retracted or not, the better, for Hooper’s sake.”  Innocent sighed.  “To be on the safe side, cross check Peterson and Hooper’s movements this morning – see if there was any overlap, any event which might have triggered Peterson – and ask someone to review the CCTV in the custody suite to see if Peterson had any contact with Susan Brayden while she was our guest.  Oh, and check Peterson’s phone records against the numbers we have on file for Susan Brayden, Andrew Caulfield, Evan Graves, and Carl Brayden – let’s dot all the ‘i’s and cross all the ‘t’s on this one.”

“Do you want to check Hooper’s phone records as well?”

“Let’s see if Peterson was actually called.  For all we know, he could have been warned in person by whoever saw the fingerprint result first.”

 

* * *

 

James closed his eyes, turned away, opened his eyes, and turned back.  It wasn’t a figment of his imagination.  Lewis was sitting on the couch staring at the same accumulation of evidence. 

It was a forensic and SOCO wet dream.

The addition to the steel box with the gun and ammunition, the search of the front room had also uncovered a floor safe.  An authorised locksmith had been called in and the safe soon opened to reveal additional ammunition, three mobile phones, and a large quantity of cash, “around £20,000 in used notes,” suggested one officer.  As alarming as that had been, what was found upstairs had left James speechless.

In a locked filing cabinet in a home office, they’d found three box-files.  One held records of business dealings and property and other purchases going back nearly seven years.

“Look at this.”  James had been scanning the various documents.  He held the file open for Lewis.

“The Audi.”  It was the original purchase record.  The pricing hadn’t been clear on the copy Julie had shown them.  “£75,000 cash.  Bloody hell.  I didn’t pay that for me first house.”

The second contained bank statements for a Newcastle account going back seven years, and a second for an Oxford account which covered fourteen months, roughly the same period of time Peterson had been in Oxford.  The sums involved in both accounts were substantial and paid in on a fairly regular basis.  Not one matched a DI’s salary.

The third box-file held what appeared to be profiles on a wide range of people.  Filed alphabetically by surname, James had found Susan and Carl Brayden, Andrew Caulfield, and Evan Graves.  He’d also looked for Elizabeth Jamieson, Graham Hawker, and Leonard Pemberton, the stolen identities they were aware of, but had drawn a blank.  Rupert Hall’s name was also absent.

A locked box in the bottom of the filing cabinet had produced another damning find.  Bags of cocaine.  A dealer-sized quantity.

“What are we looking at here?” Lewis had asked.

The bags had been weighed, and the SOCO had scribbled out some calculations.  “Well, sir, assuming this is uncut, and the way it’s packaged suggests it is, you’re probably looking at a street value of around a million pounds.”

On the couch, Lewis exhaled heavily and dug his phone out from inside the scene suit.

 

* * *

 

Innocent ended the call and leant her forehead against the wall of the viewing room.

“Jean?”  Laxton crossed the room and rested a hand on Innocent’s shoulder.

“That was Lewis.”  She straightened up.

“SOCO have found something?”

“Something is an understatement.”  Innocent quickly summarised what had been found.  She couldn’t believe the words coming from her mouth.

“A million pounds?”  Laxton stared through the glass at Peterson.  “Mr Healthy Body Healthy Mind and a million pounds of cocaine?”

“You don’t have to be a user to be a dealer.”

Inside the interview room, Peterson seemed to be talking to himself.  Innocent flicked the switch to hear what he was saying.

He was muttering.  “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

He had a point.

“What I’d like to know is–”  Innocent was cut off by a sharp rap on the door.  It opened, and Hooper stuck his head through the gap, looking slightly lost.  Not an unusual state of affairs, thought Innocent.

“Begging your pardon, but I was told you were looking for me, Chief Superintendent.”

“Wherever did you get that idea from, Gordon?” Innocent stepped forward quickly, ushering Hooper out ahead of her, and beckoning Laxton to follow.  If there was even the remotest possibility of a connection, she didn’t want Hooper to see Peterson in the interview room.

“I was going past the incident room and one of the PCs thought they’d overheard you asking DI Laxton where I was.  They suggested I’d find you here.”

 _Shit._  “Ah.  We’re, ah, there was… an incident this morning, and we need to establish the whereabouts of a number of officers in case the Chief Constable gets asked about it.”  It wasn’t a lie.  Three – Peterson, Hooper, and whoever might have told Peterson about the print – was a number.  “Inspector Laxton may need to take a statement from you and others about your movements this morning, just for the record.”

“I’ve been up at A&E since 8am, ma’am, following up on a road rage incident.  It’s all logged.  I spoke to the duty sergeant while I was there.  What’s happened?”

“Nothing for you to concern yourself with.”

Either the man was completely innocent or he was one of the finest actors she’d ever met.  Given Hooper had failed all three undercover training courses he’d been on, she had little faith in his acting ability.

“I’m sure it’ll be routine, Gordon.  Thank you.  DI Laxton will let you know if she needs to speak to you again.”

They stopped at the stairs.

“Very well, ma’am.”  Hooper slouched off down the stairs.

Laxton looked at Jean and puffed out her cheeks.  “Look at the poor man.  God, Peterson can be a complete–”

“Careful now.”

“…rhymes with prat.”

“I won’t argue with you on that one.”

 

**********

 

Innocent walked out of Forensics pinching the bridge of her nose so hard it brought tears to her eyes.  The information in the files alone was damning enough, never mind the rest.

Laxton walked beside her.  “Would you like to give Peterson the news or shall I?”

“Is his solicitor here yet?”

“He’s in London with another client and can’t get here until tomorrow.  It’s bloody fortunate for Peterson Browning’s name didn’t turn up in that box-file.”

Innocent huffed.  “For all we know he’s in there under a different name.  We’ll have to get an image of him when he arrives and get someone to compare it to the photographs in the file.”

“Did you notice they were all passport photos?  If they’re creating false licences and passports, and other identification, that’s going to make life far more complicated.”

“God, Helen, stop.  My head’s hurting enough as it is.”

“Do we tell Peterson what’s been found?”

“We’ll have to email all the details of the case against Peterson to this Browning fellow – that will have to include the evidence.  Once that’s done, we’ll tell Peterson.”

“Are you going to mention what Peterson said about… you know?”

Innocent stopped walking.  “If we don’t, and Peterson chooses to mention it, it could give the solicitor grounds to argue we’re not treating Peterson fairly.  But if we do, and Peterson elects to stay silent, we risk opening a can of worms.”

“Damned if we do, damned if we don’t.”

 

**********

 

Peterson closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands.  “The bank statements and business documents are mine.  Nothing else is.”

“Oh, we know without a doubt they are yours – your name is all over them.”  Peterson slipped down in the seat.  “The only evidence which wasn’t secured was the handgun and some of the ammunition.  Everything else was either in the floor safe or a locked filing cabinet, for which SOCO had to bring a locksmith in.  There was also no sign of forced entry to your home.  Who else has access to your home and those items?  Who else has keys and knows the code to your safe?”

“No-one.”

“Then how did those items get there?”

Peterson pushed himself upright.  “I don’t know.”

“Mr Peterson, your solicitor has been contacted and will be here tomorrow morning.  He’s been advised of the current charges pending against you, and of the evidence recovered so far.  Do you have anything further to say?”

He raised his head.  “What are the charges?”

“At this stage, you are to be charged with possession of a Class A drug with intent to deal, and having an unlicensed and unsecured firearm.  You’ll be held in the custody suite at this station pending further investigations and questioning.  Is there anything you wish to say?”

“No,” he murmured, dropping his head back to his arms.

 

* * *

 

“And you’re absolutely sure of that?”  Lewis held Gurdip and Julie in his gaze.  He’d returned to the incident room to see if they’d ascertained who’d printed the fingerprint result.

“Checked and double-checked, sir,” Julie answered.  “If you’ll look here.”  She turned one of the monitors around.

It was the Forensics lab.  The camera angle covered the computer used to run fingerprint checks in the lab.  The timestamp showed 8.55am.  A woman walked into view – the senior officer.  Lewis watched as she checked the computer and was visibly annoyed there was no result.  She walked out of the lab, presumably on her way to the meeting she mentioned.  Julie fast-forwarded the footage.  At 9.40am, a young woman in a lab coat appeared.

“Who’s that?” Lewis asked.

“Meg Hale; she joined Forensics three months ago as a junior technician.”

“What’s she doing?”

“Printing out the result.”

“I cross-checked with the printer logs,” Gurdip said.  “She printed one copy, one copy only, and left it sitting on the printer.”

“And then she left.”  Julie picked up the narrative.  “I picked her up a couple of minutes later going into the break room where she stayed until ten, talking with another lab tech.  Meanwhile, in Forensics…”

Julie sped up the footage again.  At 10.05am, the senior officer returned.  She was clearly puzzled to see the printout.  It was very obvious when she’d spotted Peterson’s name.

“So no-one else?”

“No.”

“Then how in the hell did anyone else know the result?”

 

**********

 

Lewis and James waited around until the last of the SOCO officers had returned to the station and the initial ballistics tests had been done.

Partial prints were found on the on the grip of the gun, the trigger, and on the bullets in the magazine found with the gun.  The magazine itself carried a clear thumbprint.

“Given the time, we probably won’t get the results back on those until mid-morning at the earliest.  We’ve test fired the weapon, and it’s a match to the other active cases.  This is the gun that killed Paul Murray.”

_And James.  Twice._

“What about the silencer?  We know one was used on three occasions.”

“No silencer was found at DI– at the suspect’s residence.”

“We need to find that silencer.  Without it, we lose the connection between Peterson and Susan Brayden, Andrew Caulfield, and Evan Graves.”

 


	27. 21 January – Tuesday – Night

 

Without discussion or any prior agreement, James followed Lewis to his car and slipped into the passenger seat.  With the known murder weapon in evidence and the alleged shooter in custody, Innocent had released them from their one-on-one protection, though they were to expect an increase in area car activity in their streets.

Lewis didn’t ask James where he wanted to go, and James made no comment when Lewis went past the turn to James’s street.

Inside his flat, Lewis opened two beers while James picked through the contents of Lewis’s fridge to see if it was possible to make dinner.

They said less than half a dozen words to each other as Lewis helped James prepare a pasta bake to replace the one they never had a chance to share.

It was how it should be.  When they were at peace with each other, when the balance was there, they didn’t need to speak.  They understood each other on a level that often awed Lewis, and occasionally scared him, with its unspoken implication of a deeper intimacy between them.

As was their habit, when the kitchen was clean to James’s satisfaction, they settled into the couch, with James in one corner and Lewis in the middle, their knees and shoulders touching.

James had demonstrated that not only was he willing to answer questions about his quite extended past, he also wasn’t going to withdraw from Lewis the more Lewis came to know about him.  As a result of this knowledge, Lewis felt more confident to ask James what might otherwise be quite sensitive questions.

He wasn’t going to fire them off at James as soon as they were alone, instead choosing the moment and the question as carefully as he could.  If the conversation then started to lead to other more complex or sensitive areas, James would have some control over what happened.

Lewis finished his second beer and put the bottle on the coffee table, making sure he put it on a drink coaster.

“When did you first learn it wasn’t a one-off, not dying?” he asked softly.

“The same morning.”

“Eh?  Result of an aftershock?”

“You could put it that way.  After accusing me of being in league with the Devil, one of the brothers who’d witnessed what had happened shot me at point blank range.”

Lewis spluttered.  “What happened to him?”

“He was committed to Bedlam and everyone else in that room was committed to secrecy on pain of them and their families joining him.”

“Bit harsh.”

“It was 1764.  Slavery and capital punishment were acceptable.  Twelve years later, we were once again transporting convicts, this time to Australia.  The asylum was becoming useful for… dealing with problems.”

“Why do you think they protected you?”

“I think they were afraid of me.  I think they still are.  They’ve been looking for a – _cure_ – for nearly 200 years.”  James puffed out his cheeks.  “They’ve documented every death, written down every detail I can give them and what they can piece together from public accounts.”

“By cure, do you mean they’re trying to find out how to kill you… permanently?”

“Yes.”

“I think I need another drink.”

 

**********

 

“I don’t mean to sound morbid,” Lewis said, concentrating on his drink, “but this immortality thing… You age – I’ve watched get older over the time I’ve known you – so, surely if you take care and avoid any accidents and such, you’ll eventually die an old man, won’t you?  Or what about illness.  You get sick like the rest of us.  What if you picked up something lethal; wouldn’t that see you off?”

“The guardians have asked the same questions over time.  So far, I’ve come back after dying from typhoid, yellow fever, and influenza, and as for aging… it’s an illusion.  Careful application of hair colour and change of style, sometimes facial hair, and a fair bit of acting.”

“Acting?”

“I stoop a little, frown a bit more.  It's illusion.  Sometimes, with certain people, I relax and forget.”  James gave a shy smile and completely relaxed his features.

Lewis held his breath; he could see it now.  Those rare moments where James was joyous and his smile completely uninhibited; everyone dropped a few years when they smiled, but James became almost boyish.  Everyone looked a bit younger when they slept, too.  Lewis had only seen James asleep on a handful of occasions, and had found himself marvelling at how impossibly young James had looked.  He'd never understood why James had been slightly distant on those rare mornings, not to mention other times when his guard might be lowered, like the other day when Lewis had been gently dismissed from the kitchen.  He understood now.  James had wanted to avoid possible questions and discussions rather than snark his way around the issue.

“So, without doing any of that, you’d look permanently 28?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Bloody hell.”

 

**********

 

James flicked through the channels, settling on a program featuring orphaned cheetah cubs.

Outside, a car backfired and they both jumped in their seats. 

James giggled nervously.  “Sorry.”

“You’re all right.”  Lewis patted James’s arm.  “At least you didn’t duck for cover.”

“Nor did you.”

“I’m not the one who was shot.”

“Fair point.”

On the telly, the cheetah cubs had given way to a young black rhino.  James settled back into his seat, inching down until his head was against Lewis’s shoulder. 

Lewis’s mind had wandered to another unpleasant memory.  “At Crevecoeur, when Hopkiss shot you, if he hadn’t… what would have happened if he’d killed you?”

“It would have made for one hell of a report.”

“But you would have been gone.”

“I would have been gone.  But I’m not, and you know about me now, so that will never happen.”

Lewis remembered how angry and disappointed he’d been at James that day.  The thought that James might have vanished before they’d had the chance to set things to rights saddened him.  Many elements of that case still had the power to alternately sadden and anger him if he thought about them long enough.  He didn’t realise he’d started to fidget until James placed a hand over his to still him.

“What’s the matter?” James murmured worriedly.

“I have to ask you, man; did you know if Mortmaigne was… we learnt about Briony, but, well, Paul?  What do you think went on?”

“I don’t believe Paul was abused, certainly not while Elizabeth and I were at Crevecoeur, and not sexually; most certainly not by Mortmaigne.”

“You sound pretty sure of that.”

“You and I both know that the greatest majority of paedophiles are gender and age-specific, and I don't believe Mortmaigne was in the small minority who acted otherwise.  Briony was sixteen, and the abuse started when she was nine or ten.  Paul would have been the right age but the wrong gender.  I’ve thought about those days a great deal since that case, looking for things I may have missed at the time.  I keep wondering if I missed an opportunity to change the future, to spare Briony Graham.”

It pained Lewis to see James torment himself, yet in James’s shoes, Lewis would have done exactly the same thing.  Moreover, Lewis wasn’t idealistic enough to let himself think this might be the only situation that had tortured James over the years.

James continued.  “There were a number of kids on the estate at that time who would have… who fitted Mortmaigne’s… preferences.”  He screwed his face up in disgust.  “Apart from Paul, only the Danvers sisters were regularly near the Hall, and to the best of my knowledge, they were the only estate kids who were offered piano lessons during my time there.”

“In the summerhouse?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Like Briony.”

“Yes.  Unlike Briony, however, the Danvers sisters had their mother around the entire time, and she insisted on supervising to make sure the girls behaved.  His Lordship was really above suspicion of anything.”

“How long did the lessons go for?”

James shrugged.  “They were still taking them when we left, and Belinda Danvers was still supervising.”

“What about Scarlett?” Lewis asked.  “If Mortmaigne was being thwarted by Mrs Danvers, knowing what we know now, do you think he would have... well?”

James shifted uncomfortably.  “There was time when I did wonder if something had happened.  Scarlett had always been a changeable child, capricious, but as she grew older, she was more often cold and cruel.  I mentioned it to Elizabeth at the time, but she reassured me she’d watched them around the Hall, and there was nothing to suggest she was in any way wary or uncomfortable around her father.  Elizabeth was confident there was nothing untoward happening between the father and daughter; I trusted her judgement then and I trust it now.  She believed Scarlett had discovered she was far down the list of her father’s affections.  I suppose, like Paul, when she got older she started to do whatever it took to be in his affections, right down to concealing a murder to protect his reputation.”

“Abuse of children comes in more than one form: you know that.”

James’s head bobbed in acknowledgement.  “Paul was a year younger than James, and the two boys played together a fair bit.”  A fond smile flitted across James’s face.  “Paul was in and out of Lodge Farm quite often on weekends until he was about ten.  I would have hoped either Elizabeth or I might have noticed if something was amiss.”

“What about his own parents?”

“Paul’s father was distant, and he hardly saw his mother; she spent so much time at the house.  I wonder now if Paul wasn’t jealous of the relationship James had with his mother and me.  When he turned ten, Mortmaigne took an interest in Paul, gave him some small jobs around the Hall, and we barely saw him after that.”

“And that wasn’t suspicious behaviour?”

James shook his head.  “You have to remember, at the time Mortmaigne didn’t have a son, and most of the other estate kids already had jobs to do around their own homes.  James used to help me with the horses.”

“Why didn’t Paul help his parents then?”

“John Hopkiss was the groundskeeper.  He spent his days around guns, traps, and poison.  Sarah, Paul’s mother, didn’t want him anywhere near any of that, and she didn’t want him near the horses either, or he could have helped James.”

“Overprotective?”

“I think it was more the case that Sarah felt she couldn’t protect him because she wasn’t around enough to watch out for him, but not wanting anyone else to think she wasn’t a responsible parent – or to feel they had to look out for Paul – she cocooned him in her own way with rules and tight boundaries.  Sarah worked in the kitchens, and she was thrilled when Paul was brought into the safety of the Hall.  Mortmaigne even paid for Paul to go to public school in Bedfordshire.  We know now that Paul would have done anything to protect Mortmaigne.  Perhaps he felt he had a debt to pay.  His… devotion… to Mortmaigne didn’t go unnoticed among the kids, either. One day, about three months before we left, Elizabeth told me Paul had come over to play for the first time in quite a while, and James had started to tease him about following Mortmaigne about like a dog.  She put a stop to it as soon as she heard what was going on, but Paul was upset and ran off.  He never came back to Lodge Farm again, and started to isolate himself from the other children.  Elizabeth worried about Paul; we both did.  He was still a child.  It was almost a relief to know he’d be going to boarding school, and away from Crevecoeur.”

Lewis picked at the label on his bottle.  It was a habit he’d picked up from James.  “When we were at Crevecoeur, before we had to question her, did you ever suspect Briony was…?”

James looked bereft.  “I feel I should have.  We might have worked out what was going on sooner.  I misjudged Mortmaigne.  I didn’t completely trust him, but nor did I think him capable of something so monstrous.”

Lewis considered his next question carefully.  “I’m not sure I should ask this, and you can tell me to shut up, but… you and Scarlett?  No-one could miss that hideous tie two days in a row, even if they didn’t notice it was the same suit and shirt,” Lewis said, with much blushing and hemming and hawing.  “Scarlett was your son’s playmate.  Wasn’t it… didn’t you…”

James gaped at Lewis, aghast.  “I didn’t sleep with her!  Not ‘sleep’ sleep.  She was upset and confused about her upcoming engagement to Tarek Shimali...  The priest and father in me… We had dinner, and I did spend the night at her flat, but we didn’t sleep together, not that way.  I’ll admit I was fascinated by the woman she’d become, and I felt sorry for her in a way – forced into a marriage she didn’t want, by a man she adored who didn’t really care.  I thought, foolishly, that I might be able to make her happy for at least one night.  I believed it until I kissed her.  We talked.  She told me her fears; how she was afraid she would lose her father forever if she didn’t go through with the wedding.  And she was so angry with him.  She cried herself to sleep, curled up in my lap.  I thought we’d come to an understanding.”

”Until she kept flirting with you.”

“Yes.”

 

**********

 

James nudged Lewis with an elbow, bringing him back to the room.  “What are you thinking about?  You’ve been frowning at the wall for five minutes.”

“You don’t always lose your memory, do you?  Those last moments?”  Lewis pressed his lips together.  He knew it was a bastard of a question, but he wanted, almost needed, to know.

James studied his own hands.  “I’ve remembered more than I’ve forgotten,” he said quietly.

Lewis could only imagine some of the horrors James must have experienced, especially the recent shooting.  “Is that why you have trouble sleeping?”

“It’s part of it.”

“In the time I’ve known you, in all the time we’ve worked together, have you died?”

“No.  You’ve made sure of that.”

“I nearly didn’t.  Zoe Kenneth.  I barely got you out of that house in time.”  Lewis shuddered.

“But, if you hadn’t found me at the house when you did, you would have most likely found me sometime later that night, wandering drunk or drugged around the streets of Jericho, possibly with the same recall I had of events at the time, or nothing beyond perhaps walking away from my flat with Zoe.”

“And Father Anthony would have been the one to bring you back?”

“If he was there that night.”

“So I could have saved me back?”

“You saved me instead.”

 

* * *

 

The custody suite was cheerless during the day and oppressive at night.  Peterson had always spent as little time as possible in custody suites, jails, and anywhere else one could potentially be locked away in a small room.

He sat on the thin vinyl-covered mattress and tucked his knees under his chin.  He supposed he should be grateful they’d let him keep his socks.

He could hear soft footfalls as someone walked along the line of cells, listening for anything out of place.  When he closed his eyes, he imagined he could hear hushed voices talking about him.  He’d be the topic of station gossip for months – not exactly how he wanted to leave his mark in Oxford.

Peterson covered his mouth to stifle a groan.

Those bastards out there working to put him behind bars had no idea of the full extent of the truth, and he had no intention of helping them.  There was far too much at stake.

 


	28. 22 January – Wednesday – Morning

 

James entered the viewing room backwards, having used his bum to push the door handle down and the door in.  In his hands, he balanced a cardboard tray with two large coffees and two greasy paper bags from the bakery.

“Have I missed anything?” he asked.

Lewis relieved him of one cup and one bag and sat back down on the edge of the table.

“No.  Peterson and Browning are just on their way up now.  Browning asked for thirty minutes to review the case and evidence.”

“Not as informed as Rupert Hall was, or an act, do you think?”

“I don’t know.  He does appear to be above board, though.  Julie had no trouble preparing a bio on him for Innocent.  He’s with one of the larger London firms.”

“Any clue as to how he and Peterson might have crossed paths?”

“Not at this stage.  Gurdip pulled a fairly clear headshot from the CCTV footage at the front desk and he’s going through that bloody box file to see if Mr Browning’s face shows up.  Once he’s done that, a couple of DCs from Laxton’s team are going to start running background checks on the others in the box.  There might be a link to Browning, and it’s just as possible he has no other connection to the case beyond Peterson.”

Lewis opened the paper bag and drew out the bacon and egg roll so a couple of inches protruded from the top of the bag.  He took a bite and watched as the door to the interview room opened and Peterson walked in followed by a man of similar height and build.

A low whistle startled Lewis.  James was looking appreciatively at Browning.  “What’s caught your eye then?”  God, did he sound jealous?  That would be completely out of line.

“Expensive solicitor.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“He’s wearing a top of the line Armani suit, which probably set him back the better part of £1,200, and the case he’s carrying is Louis Vuitton and probably cost more.”

Lewis wanted to chuckle with relief, but then he’d have to explain why.  “Developed a taste for the finer things in life over the years, have you?”

“More like I miss them.  Sergeant’s salary doesn’t quite match my desires when it comes to clothes and accessories.”

“You always look smart.  Always plenty of eyes watching you when you stride through town.”

A pleased smile rested on James’s lips.  “I may not have the income to keep me in the manner to which I could very easily become reaccustomed, but I have learnt to shop wisely.”

A commanding voice echoed into the viewing room and Lewis hastily reduced the incoming volume.

“Chief Superintendent, Inspector Laxton, I trust we can come to a speedy and satisfactory outcome in this matter.”  Browning’s tone was condescending.  Innocent stiffened; her shoulders moved backwards and her chin lifted.

“Someone’s spoiling for a fight,” James murmured, taking a bite of his own bacon and egg roll.

“And he’s going to get it,” Lewis replied.

Browning slapped a yellow legal pad on the desk, along with a black and silver pen which he placed with a bit more care.

“So what sort of pen’s that?  Must be expensive if he’s not banging it about.”

“Montblanc, I think, though not one of the more distinctive ones.  Probably mid-range, around £300.  He probably loses them so doesn’t make as big an investment.”

_Three hundred quid for a pen?  And James doesn’t flinch?_   Lewis made a note to one day ask James what it was like to be among the landed gentry.

Browning cleared his throat.  “You have a single fingerprint.  My client and I are of the belief there was a grievous error made in the identification of the print and we are formally requesting–”

“The print was run a second time yesterday afternoon; there is no error in the identification.”

“Your own report states it is only an eighty-five per cent match, which leaves some room for doubt.”

“Mr Peterson attempted to run, so he obviously didn’t think so.”

“Mr Peterson had just arrived at his home when he was accosted by officers from this station.  That’s hardly running.”

“Mr Peterson was supposed to be at work, and had left in a hurry shortly before it was discovered his print had been identified on a murder victim.  I would call that running, and so would the majority of jury members and judges.  When he was apprehended, before he’d been told why he was being arrested, Mr Peterson stated to the arresting officer that the print wasn’t his, and he’d been set up.  In addition, when a search of Mr Peterson’s home was conducted–”

“Without a search warrant.”

“Mr Peterson was being arrested on suspicion of murder; we didn’t need a warrant.  When the search was conducted, evidence pertaining to several open enquiries, and sizable quantities of cash and a Class A drug were found in his home.”

“Evidence which was planted.”

“Mr Peterson has told me he didn’t know how those items got there.”

Peterson spoke up.  “I left home at 8am, as usual, and I can assure you many of those items listed as being found in my home were not there when I left.  I’ve admitted to the bank statements and the file of business documents.  That’s it.  The rest had to have been planted.”

“Mr Peterson, so far you haven’t given us a reasonable explanation as to how you knew about the watch and fingerprint.”  Laxton spoke quietly and firmly.  “We’re in the process of checking your phone records, and will be looking at the station’s CCTV to ascertain your movements.  Perhaps you could save us time and money by simply telling us how you knew?”

“I…”

Peterson faltered and Browning whispered in Peterson’s ear.  Peterson shook his head vehemently and glared at Innocent.

Browning addressed Innocent.  “In the documentation I received this morning, it’s noted that a DC Hooper was named by Mr Peterson as the person who set him up.  Are you even looking into this man?”

Peterson had gone an alarming shade of grey.  Laxton lowered her head slightly.  In the viewing room, James was staring wide-eyed at Lewis.  Lewis could only imagine his own face.  _Hooper?_ “I know he and Hooper don’t get on,” Lewis whispered, “but you don’t make that kind of accusation unless you can back it up.”

“Innocent won’t like that one bit, and Laxton doesn’t look too pleased either.”

“She must have known about it if it was in the solicitor’s brief.  They kept that well under wraps and I think you and I had best keep it to ourselves too.”

“Agreed.”

Innocent squared her shoulders.  “We’ve started a separate enquiry into DC Hooper to ascertain his movements for yesterday morning.  What I do know is he was sent to A&E to interview the victim of a road rage assault.  He left this station shortly after 7.40am and arrived at the hospital at 8am.  By his own admission just now, in your presence, Mr Peterson left his home at 8am.”

“You only have this Hooper’s word.”

“As I’ve said, an enquiry is underway, and his whereabouts will be thoroughly checked.”

“By his colleagues,” Browning sneered.

“Mr Browning, Mr Peterson was one of DC Hooper’s colleagues.  I do hope you’re not implying there’s a culture of favouritism in this station, or that our procedures are in any way discriminatory or biased?  The Chief Constable would regard such an allegation as highly defamatory.”

“Of course not, Chief Superintendent.”  Browning lost some of his bluster.  “I’d like to take a break until there’s more information on this other officer.”

“Your choice, Mr Browning.  As our investigation is ongoing, we may need to talk to Mr Peterson on other matters before we have that information.”

“I’ll be staying in Oxford, and can be reached on my mobile.”

“Very well.”

 

* * *

 

Laxton thought Browning was every bit the show pony Peterson was, and more.  It wasn’t simply the expensive suit and accessories.  He had the same air Peterson usually wore – though not today – of ‘look at me; look what I’ve achieved.’  She was grateful for a task which took her away from that, and she poured over the logs from the previous day.  The duty sergeant had offered to do whatever needed doing, and Laxton had assured him it was unnecessary.

“I’m sure you’ve other more important tasks.  It’s fine.  Really.”  She hated the idea of anyone else connecting Hooper to Peterson.  Innocent until proven guilty; that’s how they worked.

She re-read her notes:

_Hooper arrived at station @ 7_  
_Assigned to road rage incident at 7.30 – sent to A &E JR_  
_Desk sgt called H at 9am for update.  H waiting for Dr to update him_  
_H called at 11.  Boy in induced coma.  H returning to station._

She’d already determined Peterson had arrived at the station around 8.30am.  There was no bloody way Hooper could have crossed paths with him yesterday morning.

 

* * *

 

Lewis hunched over beside James, and both of them peered over Gurdip’s shoulder.

“So, you’re saying Peterson never had any phone contact with either of the Braydens, Caulfield, or Graves?”  Lewis straightened up.  James hadn’t been kidding when he said his couch wasn’t made for sleeping on.  Even after a night in his own bed, Lewis’s back still ached.

“Correct, sir.”

“And he didn’t receive any calls yesterday morning?”

“No.”

“So why did he bolt?  What did he hear or see that made him take off?”

“What about the internal CCTV?” James asked.  “Any possibility we might catch him talking to someone around the time in question?”

“That’s a lot of cameras to check unless we can determine where he was at the time he found out.”  Gurdip grimaced.

“What about other phone numbers?”  Lewis stretched slightly to one side, easing a tight spot.

“Nothing in his name.”

Lewis pushed a hand through his hair.  There were already enough false names in this case; another one wouldn’t be a surprise.  They were at risk of going in circles and getting nowhere fast.  Lewis sat on the edge of the desk.  “There’s got to be something.  He might be a smartarse, but he’s not clairvoyant.”

James started to pace.

Lewis crossed his arms and rocked back slightly, lifting his face to the ceiling.  “So, do we think there’s a chance he’s Leonard Pemberton or Graham Hawker?  They’re the only names without faces in this case so far.”

“Maybe he’s neither?” James muttered.

“Don’t say things like that.”  Lewis tutted.  “There are already too many bloody characters in this case as it is.”

“Peterson, Pemberton,” Gurdip murmured.  “Or maybe he’s both.”

Lewis straightened and raised his eyebrows at James, who’d come to a stop.  “That almost makes sense.  If you’re going to give yourself an alias, you want to make it easy to remember, and if it sounds similar and someone yells out your name in the street…”

“People hear what they expect to hear,” James finished.  A head tilt _._ He mouthed over Gurdip’s head, _“Do you think Peterson might have meant…”_

_“Hawker not Hooper?”_ James nodded.  “Perhaps.  But surely it’s not that simple?”  Lewis shook his head.  “Whoever’s running this has been a step ahead of us all the way.”

Gurdip rocked back in his chair.  “I still have to trace back all the other unknown numbers on Peterson’s phone to see if anything comes up, so maybe we’ll find something there.”

“Why’re you getting lumbered with all the phone traces and such?”  Lewis frowned.  “You’re not the only one in your section.”

“With Peterson’s arrest, all his current drug-related investigations are under scrutiny.  Everything’s being reviewed.  You’re lucky to have me.  You could have been on your own with all of this wondrous technology.”

James recommenced his pacing.

Gurdip put his elbow on the desk and cradled his chin in his palm.  “Why doesn’t Innocent or Laxton just ask Peterson if he knows Graham Hawker or Leonard Pemberton?  If he says yes, then hammer him for more information.  If it was me, and I was framed, I’d be coughing up any name I could.”

“Does Peterson know we know about Hawker and Pemberton?”  Lewis was trying to remember if Peterson had ever walked in on the names being discussed.  He was certain Peterson hadn’t been actively involved in any discussions.

“Unless he’s managed to get into Laxton and Innocent’s secured files, it’s unlikely,” James said.

“Do we work on the assumption he doesn’t know we know?”

James sat on the edge of Gurdip’s desk.  “I’m in agreement with Gurdip on this.  If I was trying to clear myself, I’d be naming names, giving up what I knew – if only to buy time.”

“Unless you have a reason for staying silent.”

“Protecting someone?”

“Maybe.  I’ve got a briefing with Innocent in…”  Lewis checked his watch.  “–half an hour.  I’ll make the suggestion – it’ll be her call whether she runs with it or not.  What else do you have, Gurdip?”

“There were three phones found in the search.  From the SIM cards, we know one was Susan Brayden’s – the one she claimed she lost which was registered in the name of Elizabeth Jamieson–”

“Which we already know about.”  Lewis’s shoulders drooped.

“Yes, and another belonged to Andrew Caulfield, for which we also already have call records, etcetera, on file.”

“Hang on.  If that was Caulfield’s phone, then whose phone did he have on him when he was arrested?  It was the same phone he had when we interviewed him, wasn’t it, James?”

“I don’t know.  I haven’t seen the one from the farm.”

“What phone did you see him with?”  Gurdip looked from Lewis to James.

“Black iPhone,” James answered.

“It was a shattered black iPhone they picked up off the farmhouse floor.  The SIM was heavily damaged and the identifying numbers had been scratched off.  With the level of damage done to the phone, we haven’t been able to get anything off it at all.  I thought you’d already seen the report?”

“Damn!” Lewis groaned.  “I had.  I’d forgotten about it with everything else that’s happened.  Is it worth having another crack at it?”

“If you’ve got the budget, but the odds aren’t in your favour.”

“Damn it.”  Lewis wanted to thump his fist on the desk, but what would that achieve.  “And the third phone?”

“You might like this one, sir.  It’s Carl Brayden’s phone.”

James dropped heavily into a chair next to Gurdip.  “Why on earth would Peterson have Carl Brayden’s phone, unless…”

“He killed, or knows who killed, Carl,” Lewis finished.  “We’d pulled his call records.  Anything else of use on the phone?”

“Photos, sir.”  Gurdip switched monitors and the screen filled with large thumbnail images.  Gurdip began to click through them.  They showed Andrew Caulfield and Susan Brayden outside the Drum and Quill.  It appeared Carl had been following his sister.  There was also another photograph of the two of them getting into a silver car.

“Is that an Audi A8?” Lewis asked.  No one image showed a full side profile of the car, but it looked familiar.

“I believe so, sir.”

“Is it Peterson’s?”  James leaned closer to the screen.

“Be a bloody odd coincidence if it’s not.  Is there a clearer shot of the driver or the registration?”

“Yes.”  Gurdip gave a crooked smile.  “We had to enhance it a little.”  The grainy image showed the driver of the car looking into the side mirror.  Despite the quality of the image and the sunglasses the person was wearing, it was recognisable as Peterson.

Lewis stood up.  His back was stiffening up again.  “We’ll need prints of those.”

“Already done, sir.”  Gurdip handed him an envelope.

James huffed.  “I wonder what story he’ll come up with for those.  Confidential informants?”

“He may not know about them, sir.”  Gurdip looked up at James standing over him.

“Oh?”

“If you discovered a phone had potentially compromising images of you, wouldn’t you delete them if you had the chance?  This phone didn’t have a PIN or passcode.  It would have taken DI Peterson only a few minutes to find and remove the photos.”

“So he either didn’t look, or didn’t believe there was anything there, or the phone wasn’t in his house until that morning.”  Lewis thought quickly.  “James, what were the initial fingerprint results on the items from Peterson’s house?”

“No results yet.”

“Why not?”

“Staff shortages.”

“They just have to compare them to Peterson’s prints; how long can that take?”

“Because there’s only one full print, to be seen to be fair and unbiased they have to run a full search.  That takes time.”

“Hell.”  Lewis stretched his lower back, earning a concerned look from James.  “Where were the prints found again?”

James located the right folder and skimmed the pages.  “The only recoverable prints found were on the gun, magazine, and bullets in the magazine.”

“Everything else was wiped clean?”

“Not clean.  There were prints on them, but too heavily smudged to make finding any sort of match possible.”

“Handled by several pairs of gloved hands, then.”

“That’s their conclusion.”  James shot upright, swaying on his feet.

“Bloody hell, James!  Don’t do things like that!”

“Gloves,” James said cryptically.

“I’m going to need more than that, James.”

“Peterson rides a motorcycle.  He always wears gloves, and in winter he has an inner and outer pair.  I made a comment about them once when he was wearing them in the break room.  If Innocent hadn’t been nearby I think he would have given me a mouthful.”

“Okay.”  Lewis suspected there was more, as James was visibly trying to remember something.

James’s chin jerked upwards.  “Early in this case – Sunday or Monday; it’s all a bit blurry – I saw Hooper and Peterson have a set-to in the car park.  Hooper confronted Peterson.  It got physical and Peterson shoved Hooper.  Hooper was furious, ‘sick of him,’ he said, and something about Peterson being up himself.”

“You’ve never mentioned this before.”

“At the time I thought Peterson had done something to piss Hooper off – again – and Hooper had had enough.  What if Hooper threatened to report Peterson for harassment or bullying?  God knows, he’s been guilty of it on more than one occasion and has always managed to sweet-talk his way out of it.  What if Peterson’s accusations about Hooper are about payback?”

“That’d be an extreme case of bullying.”

“I think Peterson’d be capable of it, don’t you, sir?”

Lewis did.

 


	29. 22 January – Wednesday – Afternoon/evening

 

Gurdip had also reviewed the CCTV footage taken in and around the custody suite during the time Susan Brayden had been there.  The results for the most part were disappointing.  The only people to go anywhere near the cell Susan Brayden had been held in were the duty officers and the solicitor, Graves.

However, the footage of Susan Brayden leaving with Graves offered a little more.  Both stopped dead in the corridor at one point, with Susan looking puzzled, and Graves frightened.  Whoever or whatever they were looking at was off camera.

“There’s more than one camera in that corridor, isn’t there?” Lewis asked. 

“No,” Gurdip said hesitantly. 

“So we can’t see what they’re looking at?”

“This station has a lot of internal blind spots; there are some places in a police station you don’t expect to need cameras.”  Gurdip shrugged.  “I did search for footage along any adjoining corridors between the suite and the exits, but it’s not that hard to avoid being picked up if you’re aware of the cameras.”

“So it may or may not be Peterson they saw?”

“It could be any one of a number of people who had every right to be in that corridor at that time,” James said.  “And any one of those could have found out about the print and told Peterson.”

“Peterson can still be asked about it though, and shown this.  His reaction could give us what we need, more than his words have.”

 

**********

 

Lewis left Gurdip and James to work through the details of the evidence Gurdip had uncovered and prepare a written report for Laxton and Innocent.  He went to his meeting with Innocent far more hopeful than he’d expected.

A young woman occupied one of the chairs in front of Innocent’s desk.

“Inspector Lewis,” Innocent greeted him.  “I’d like to introduce you to Claire Havilland from Cyber Crimes.”

Lewis shook the young woman’s hand, and then sat down.

“Miss Havilland, could you please bring Inspector Lewis up to date?”

Her voice was stronger than Lewis had expected from the tiny frame; not overly deep, it was, however, commanding and rich.  He felt like he was listening to a female version of James.

“We were asked to determine who changed a specific vehicle ownership record, and who gained unauthorised access to the custody suite emails.  We’ve traced both incidents back to a shared computer in the primary incident room, and the same login.  Detective Inspector Alan Peterson, or someone who knew his ID and password, was responsible for both incidents.  What was very interesting to us was that he also managed to get into the back-up files and change the same information.  That’s not easy to do, unless you’ve been shown how and, in my experience, it’s not something most police officers would be shown.  The details are in my report, and if you have CCTV in that room, you may be able to catch your suspect in action.”

“Thank you, Claire.”  Innocent looked to Lewis.  “As you are well aware, we know Peterson is the owner of the Audi in question, so his reasons for changing that record are obvious and I won’t be questioning him on it at this stage.”

Lewis started to protest and Innocent raised a hand to stop him.

“Miss Havilland will be staying at the station with her colleague to look for any other breaches in relation to all cases where Peterson was SIO.  We need to know if he’s compromised this station’s reputation in any other way.  Then we’ll build the case against him.”

Lewis nodded.  Peterson would be going behind bars.  They had some time.  “I realise it probably wasn’t part of Miss Havilland’s brief, but do we know anything further on the missing paperwork from the custody suite?”

“At this stage, until we have the resources to review the CCTV for the periods covering each of the four incidents, we have to put them down to administrative errors.  There will be a separate investigation, but the most likely outcome will be a recommendation to provide better training for all officers who work there.”

“Will that be all, Chief Superintendent?”  Claire Havilland started to rise.  “I should be getting back.”

“Yes, that’s all.  Thank you.”  Innocent remained silent until the door clicked shut.  “The fingerprint results from the ballistics are back.  The prints on the grip and trigger were smeared, but are a partial match to Peterson, as were those on the bullets, which were clearer.  The thumbprint on the magazine, however, was unmistakably Peterson’s.”

“He’s our shooter.”  Lewis was angered and gutted at the same time.

“We know conclusively he loaded the gun.  The smudged print on the grip suggests someone may have fired the gun after him.”

“Two shooters?”

“It’s a strong possibility.”

Lewis leant on the arm of the chair.  He shoved a hand through his hair and tugged on his ear.

“I believe you and James have been with Mr Sohal for much of the day.  What have you learnt?”

Lewis succinctly filled her in.

Innocent pushed back from her desk.  “Peterson’s keeping something back, of that I’m in no doubt.  It could be his full connection to this whole mess.  Is Peterson Pemberton?  It’s an interesting premise.  We know from the phone records of all the murder victims, except Murray, that Susan Brayden, Caulfield, Pemberton, and Hawker are all linked, and the level of activity indicates Pemberton was at the hub of the wheel.”

“Ma’am,” Lewis said cautiously as he wrapped up his report.  “DC Hooper.”

“I wondered when you’d bring that up.  Do you and Hathaway have any thoughts?”

“Peterson doesn’t like Hooper, and the feeling’s mutual.  It could simply be Peterson lashing out.”

“Do you give Peterson’s claim any credence?”

“I’m undecided, ma’am.  It doesn’t seem likely, but then none of this does.  James did raise the possibility he may have meant to say Hawker not Hooper; they’re not dissimilar.”

“Like Peterson and Pemberton.  Blurting out the wrong name in the heat of the moment?”

“We’ve all done something similar – mixed up names and places because we’re not thinking straight.”

Innocent leant on her desk.  “Playing devil’s advocate here, but what if Peterson did mean to accuse Hooper?  Do you think it’s possible Hooper is involved?”

Lewis huffed.  “Hooper’s not dumb, despite what folks like Peterson like to put about.  He’s unlikely to make sergeant, but I really believe that’s more a lack of motivation than ability.  Even so, I couldn’t see Hooper setting someone up.  If the watch and print were planted, and it was Hooper, he’d’ve had to have access to Susan Brayden’s body before it was found.  Hooper’s more squeamish than Morse ever was; there’s no way he would touch a dead body, let alone a burnt one.  And what could he possibly hope to gain?”

“A little peace and quiet?  Regaining his self-confidence and sense of worth?”  People have killed for less, thought Lewis.  “Though I do have to agree with you, as I suspect Helen would; I can’t see Hooper manipulating evidence, let alone burning bodies in disused quarries.  I think the Hooper/Hawker slip of the tongue is a possibility.”  A tired sigh escaped.  “I suppose I should go and talk to Mr Peterson again.”

 

**********

 

Lewis was in the break room with James, making a desperately needed cup of tea.

“Robbie?  Hi James.”  Laura gave James a half-hearted wave.

Lewis was instantly at Laura’s side, worried by her pale features.  “Here…”  He guided her to the nearest chair.  “Sit down before you fall down.  Are you okay?”

“I’ve just heard the news about Alan.  Is it true?”

“You’ve just heard?  The station’s been buzzing with it.”

“I went home feeling unwell just before lunchtime on Tuesday, and was laid up with a bit of a stomach upset.  I only came in about half an hour ago.”

“Should you be in at all?”  James moved over to where Laura had sat.  “I could arrange for a constable to drive you home if you’re still feeling unwell.  I’d drive you myself, but…”

“I’m fine, really, James, but thanks for the offer.  So, is it true?  Drugs and weapons?  Alan?”

“Afraid so.”

“You don’t sound upset.”

“He had the gun which fired the shots that killed Murray, and was used in the other recent murders.”

“And the shooting at your flat?”  She looked wide-eyed at James.

“The same.”

“I can’t believe it, but…”  Laura’s teeth worried at her bottom lip.

“Laura?”  Lewis crouched beside the chair.

“I saw Alan on Tuesday morning.  He… he was all oil and charm one minute, and then he received a phone call and changed completely.  He looked scared, Robbie.”

James made a soft sound.

“What time was that?” Lewis asked softly.

“Around ten – Robbie, what is it?”

Lewis rose to his feet.  “You need to make a statement.  We’re fairly confident Peterson was told about the print sometime around ten on the Tuesday, but we’ve found nothing so far.”

“Surely if you looked into his phone records–”  Laura gasped.  “It wasn’t his iPhone.  I remember thinking he was a show pony, changing his phone again.”

Lewis slipped a hand under Laura’s elbow and helped her to her feet.  “You need to make a statement now.”

 

* * *

 

“Mr Peterson!”  Innocent’s patience with Peterson and Browning, and their non-responses, was growing thin.  “The fingerprint evidence is conclusive.  You loaded the Walther P99 which was found in your home, and you fired it at least once; your prints were found on the grip and trigger.”

“They.  Were.  Planted.  Exactly like the print on the watch.  I am being set up.”

“Ah, yes, the watch.  Mr Peterson, how did you know Susan Brayden?”

“I didn’t know her.  I never encountered her name until I heard she’d been arrested for possession.”

“Then I’m rather curious to know how you knew she didn’t wear a watch.”

“I never said I knew–”

“You told DI Laxton–”

“I told Inspector Laxton, if you asked anyone who knew Susan, such as her housemate, they’d tell you she didn’t wear a watch.”

“And how did you know that if you didn’t know her?”

“I read the statement from Beth Jamieson.”

“The impression DI Laxton had was that your knowledge was first-hand.”

“She was wrong.”

“It’s a rather odd little detail to remember from a statement that wasn’t connected to any of your cases.  Why did you read it?”

“It was a drugs charge.  I wanted to see if it should’ve come to my team or not.”

“Are you in the habit of chasing up every case of minor possession?  It’s not the most cost effective use of your time.”

“Chief Superintendent, is this going anywhere?”  Browning leant over the desk.

Innocent held up one hand in a conciliatory gesture.  She really wanted to give him the bird.

“Mr Peterson, tell me about Leonard Pemberton.”

Browning hurriedly flicked through his notes. 

Peterson blinked twice rapidly.  “I’m not familiar with the name,” he eventually said.

“What about Graham Hawker?”  Peterson was unmoved.  “Is that name familiar to you?”

“Chief Superintendent!”

“Yes, Mr Browning?”

“Those names do not appear in any of the documentation I’ve been given.  What is their relevance?”

She stared coolly at him.  “Until this quite recently we weren’t certain there was any.”

“This is highly irregular.  I should have–”

“Mr Peterson.”  Innocent ignored the blustering solicitor.  “Is the name Graham Hawker familiar to you?”

“No.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about the phone call you received Tuesday morning?”

“I didn’t receive any–”

“If I were you, I’d be very careful how I chose to answer that, Mr Peterson; there was a witness.”

“Laura,” he mumbled.

“The call, Mr Peterson.”

Browning responded.  “Chief Superintendent, may I have a moment with Mr Peterson?”

Innocent considered her options.  Solicitors didn’t like being kept in the dark by either the police or their clients.  Perhaps he could loosen Peterson’s tongue.  “Very well.  You have fifteen minutes.”

“That will be in private, won’t it, Chief Superintendent?”

“Of course; the constable will wait outside the door, and I have some other matters I can attend to.”  Coffee.  She needed a coffee.

**********

“The caller ID was withheld.”  Peterson began hesitantly.  Whatever Browning had said to him seemed to have worked.  “They told me a print had been found on Susan’s watch and it was… it would come back as mine.  I told them to stop talking bullshit, that it was impossible.”

“Did you know the voice?  Was it all familiar?”

“I couldn’t say for certain.”

“Go on, Alan,” Browning encouraged. 

“They said the print wouldn’t be all they found once they started to look.  That they’d made some… ‘alterations’ in my home.”

Browning looked smug.  “My client has stated from the beginning that he was set up.  There’s your proof.”

“It won’t be proof, Mr Browning, until we can verify the call.”

“Ha!  You have a witness.  Isn’t that enough?”

“No it isn’t, as you well know.  Mr Peterson, we checked your phone records.  You didn’t receive a call on Tuesday morning.”

“Chief Superintendent, is this some sort of twisted game?”

“No game, Mr Browning.  The witness to Mr Peterson’s call also stated he wasn’t using the phone she’d seen him with previously.”

“Peterson?”  Browning turned his displeasure away from Innocent.  “Was there another phone?”

“Yes.”  The soft sound wasn’t like Alan Peterson in the slightest.

“Mr Peterson, my advice to you is to fully disclose the details of this call.”  Browning spoke loudly enough to be picked up by the microphone, but no louder.  “I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.”

“07…” Peterson mumbled.

“Louder please, Mr Peterson.”  Browning spoke before Innocent did.

Peterson repeated the number.

“I trust you’ll also look into this Hooper’s calls?” Browning asked, fixing Innocent with an accusing gaze.

“We will do so now that we know Mr Peterson received a call and have something to verify it against.”

Browning backed away a few inches.  “Very well.”

“Mr Peterson, when we look into this phone number, are we going to find links to Leonard Pemberton or Graham Hawker?”

Browning rose from his chair and loomed across the table.  “Chief Superintendent, until I see everything you have on Hawker and Pemberton, I would appreciate it –”

“Please sit down, Mr Browning.”  Innocent opened a thin folder containing photographs.  She spread them out on the table.  “Mr Peterson, do you recognise the people in these photos?”

“That’s Susan Brayden and Evan Graves.”

“And how did you recognise them?”

“Their faces have been in the papers and on the news.”

“These aren’t the best quality images, yet you identified them quite easily.  Had you seen either of them before they appeared in the news?”

“No.”

“These images were taken as Ms Brayden was being taken from the custody suite.  As you can see, they appear to be looking at someone, and quite surprised to see whoever it was there.  Was it you?”

“No.  I wasn’t anywhere near the custody suite last Monday.”

“Did I say last Monday?”

“Please give me some credit, ma’am: it was the same day DC Murray was shot.  Most of us are going to remember that day.”

“Who do you think they might be looking at?”

“I have no idea.”

“Very well.”  She gathered up the photographs and opened a second folder.

“This is a photograph of Susan Brayden and Andrew Caulfield taken outside the Drum and Quill on the Cowley Road.”  She laid one image down on top of the other.  “As you can see, they’re getting into a silver Audi.”  Peterson’s eyelid twitched while the rest of him remained motionless.  He was holding his breath.  “Mr Peterson, I’m going to ask you again, do you know Susan Brayden?”

“I’ve told you–”

Innocent had laid down the final image showing Peterson’s face.

Browning was tellingly silent.

“Say something,” Peterson hissed.

“I’ll need some time to review the case against you.  My advice is to say nothing further.  Will you be laying additional charges against Mr Peterson?” he asked Innocent.

“What we charge him with and when will depend on what else we find.  In the meanwhile, he’ll remain in the custody suite so we have ready access to him.”

“Very well.”  Browning rose to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Peterson demanded.

“To do what I can to get you out of here.  In the meantime, you’ll have to sit tight.”

Peterson held his head high as he was led out of the interview room.

 

* * *

 

From their position in the viewing room Lewis and James watched Peterson’s departure.

“Defiant and arrogant,” Lewis muttered.  Then he frowned.  With Peterson’s back to him as he was led away, Lewis realised why the man he saw walking away outside Susan’s house seemed familiar.  It could have been Peterson – same height, same build, and the same swagger – but because the bloke wore a hoodie, Lewis didn’t make the connection at the time.  That could certainly explain where Susan Brayden’s phone came from.

 

* * *

 

Innocent ducked into the ladies’ toilets.  She dampened some paper towels under a tap and dabbed at her forehead and the back of her neck.  If she didn’t have a migraine by the end of the day, it would be a bloody miracle.

 

**********

 

“Lewis, do you trust Gurdip?”  Innocent rubbed her temples.  When was the Co-codamol going to kick in?

“Yes.”

“Please ask him to run the trace on the number Peterson’s given us, and on Hooper’s phone.  Warn him on pain of death he is not to even breathe Hooper’s name.  I won’t have another officer’s reputation tarnished without clear, unambiguous proof.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I would also like him to document Hooper’s visit to A&E as thoroughly as possible.  It’d be good to have it on file if questions are asked down the track.  We’ll need to check for any CCTV near Peterson’s home; if Peterson’s being truthful about the content of the call he received, someone was at his home on Tuesday morning.”

 

* * *

 

Lewis dropped James at his flat.

James paused with his fingers on the door handle.  “I’m supposed to get my car back tomorrow.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“It’s easy to get used to being chauffeur driven.”

“I can always give you another knock on the head, if you like.  Get you another week off.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass on that generous offer.  Come in for a drink?”

“Thanks, but I…”

“It’s okay.”  James opened the door.  Lewis stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“I’ve got an appointment with Father Anthony.”

“Oh?”

“I have to tell you, I don’t much like the word guardian.  Makes it sound like you’ll be me ward.  My best child-rearing days are behind me.”

James smiled fondly.  “It’s just a label.  It’s better than keeper, or watcher.”  He covered Lewis’s hand with his own.  “Are you certain?”

“I don’t much like the idea of you disappearing one day.  This way, anything happens to you, I’m on the inside circle.”

“Depending on what happens, and where I end up, you might have to disappear with me.”

“You let me worry about that when the time comes.  I’m sure I’ll get a chance to put a good story in place so the kids don’t worry – a transfer, maybe, something that’ll give me the opportunity to come back and visit.  And besides, it might never come to that in my lifetime.”

James edged as close as he could on the car seat.  “I keep wondering what would have happened if someone other than you had seen me disappear on the step that day?  If it had been a neighbour, if someone had been walking the dog, if he’d chosen a more public place?  I couldn’t have come back to you then, and you would never have known why.”

Lewis shuddered.  He’d found himself doing that a lot recently.  “I’d have looked for you, you know?  Would have exhausted every avenue, called in every favour.”

“I think I knew that on some level.  Now I can let myself believe it.”

“Good.”

James exited the car and, turning around, bent down and stuck his head back inside.  “Give Father Anthony my regards.”

“I will.”

“At least you don’t have to worry about Dowling tailing behind you tonight.”

“Good night, James.”

James waved behind him as he ran up to his door.

 


	30. 23 January – Thursday – Morning

 

Laxton was in her office, hoping for peace and quiet long enough to get to the bottom of her coffee cup for the first time in a week.

Gurdip arrived, closely followed by Lewis and James.  She put the lid back on the cardboard cup.  Maybe’s she’d get a chance to reheat this one before a film formed on top.

Lewis asked, “Is Innocent not here?”

“Good morning to you, Robbie.  Damage control with the Chief Constable.  Good morning, James, Gurdip.”

“Ma’am.”

“Inspector.”

Laxton waved at them to sit down.  “What do you have, Robbie?”

“This is Gurdip’s show.”

“Gurdip, the floor’s yours.”

Gurdip cleared his throat.  “The nearest CCTV to DI Peterson’s street is a pub about a kilometre away.  Without a few more details to narrow down who or what we’re supposed to be looking for, it’ll be the proverbial needle in a haystack.  Uniform are canvassing the homes in Peterson’s street to see if anyone had a security camera which might have picked up activity at Peterson’s house, or may have seen or heard something.  So nothing there yet.”

Gurdip swapped files.  He had claimed the only other swivel chair in the office, and rocked gently from side to side as he spoke.  The effect was quite mesmerising, and Laxton felt herself begin to sway slightly in time with him.

“The number Peterson gave us yesterday came back registered to Leonard Pemberton, and it was activated on the seventeenth.”

“Last Friday,” James murmured.  “That sort of matches in with the other number going dead.”

“Peterson lied to Jean’s face about knowing Pemberton.  She’s not going to be too happy about that.”  Laxton frowned and fixed her eye on Gurdip.  “But you looked for other numbers connected to Leonard Pemberton at the time, didn’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am, and for Graham Hawker.  A search was done on the Tuesday, and again on the Thursday.  Nothing came up, and another search was considered a poor use of resources.  The conclusion was reached that whoever Pemberton and Hawker were, they’d chosen other names.”  Gurdip looked frustrated.  “Would it have made much difference if we had looked again?”

“We’ve no real way of knowing,” Laxton conceded.  “Unless there were text messages on the handset, or voicemails, we have no way of knowing what discussions might have been had.”  She sighed heavily.  “What else is there, Gurdip?”

“I can confirm Peterson, Pemberton, whatever, received a call at 10.01am on Tuesday and the call came from a number we’ve been able to identify as belonging to Graham Hawker; again it was activated on the seventeenth.  The call connected to a tower near Templars Square.  That’s about a kilometre from DI Peterson’s place, in the opposite direction to the pub with CCTV.”

“There’s an abundance of CCTV at Templars Square.”  Laxton sat fully upright.  Maybe they could get something…  She slumped down again.  “And God knows how many people at that time on a Tuesday morning.”

“Another needle in a haystack.”  James folded his arms across his chest and slipped down a few inches in his seat.  Lewis did the exact same barely a second afterwards.  Peas in a bloody pod, Laxton had heard Jean call them more than once.  She had to work not to smile.  “Hooper?” she asked, focussing back on Gurdip.

“Hooper’s whereabouts on Tuesday: We have the original 999 call at 7am.  Hooper was contacted at 7.30am and asked to attend A&E.  We have CCTV footage showing him arriving in A&E at 7.55am.  He wanders around a bit, goes to the gents, and then at 8.30am he sits down in a corner of the waiting area.  It’s obscured, but we can see his feet until he tucks them up.  I checked with hospital security and they said that corner is a bit of an internal camera blind spot – something to do with where the wiring can go.  Fast forward to 10.40am and he suddenly pops up from the chair and goes to the loo again.  The doctor meets him as he’s going back to the chair.  That’s when he’s told the young bloke’s been put into an induced coma – I heard this morning that he passed away.  Hooper leaves A&E at 11.10, and was back here by noon.  He’s on camera returning the pool car keys.”

“And we know for certain he never left the hospital?” Laxton queried.

“The GPS in the pool car shows it was stationary from 7.50am until 11.15am, and the trace on Hooper’s phone shows it was connected to the same tower the entire time.”

“That’s pretty conclusive.  His calls?”

“The only call he made on Tuesday morning was to update the duty sergeant, and I can’t find anything else in his name apart from his house phone.  On both phones, most of those calls are to the station, there’re a couple of takeaway places, some to DI Grainger’s mobile, the homeless shelter he volunteers at, and the parish secretary.  Incoming calls are primarily work related.  There are no suspicious or unaccounted for numbers in the past six months.”

“I also did a trace on Hawker’s number and reviewed the trace we’d had done on the previous number for him.  The calls primarily originate from or are received in Oakley.  The only blip was the night Carl Brayden was murdered.  Hawker received two calls and sent a text message between 11pm and 2am; they connected through a tower near the JR.”

“So after all that, what have we got?”  Laxton pushed a hand through her hair.  _Wonder if I can squeeze in an hour at the hairdressers?  A head massage sounds wonderful right now._ “Evidence which adds some credence to Peterson’s claim of being set up...”

“And it pretty much puts Hooper out of the picture.”  Lewis had steepled his hands in front of his face.  “Even if, for whatever reason, Hooper had somehow managed to phone Peterson about the print result – which we know he didn’t – he was at the hospital and not near Peterson’s place.”

“That’ll give Jean something to smile about, I hope.”

 

* * *

 

Innocent sat in the small interview room attached to the custody suite.  The call had been unexpected.

The custody sergeant escorted Peterson in.

“Will Mr Browning be joining us?” Innocent asked.

“No.”  Peterson sat down and folded his hands on the table.  “I wanted to speak to you alone.”

“Would you like myself or a constable to stay with you, ma’am?”  The custody sergeant was eyeing Peterson warily.

“You have a visual feed to this room, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then I think I shall be quite safe.”

“Very well, ma’am.”

Innocent found the tone of blatant disapproval in his voice touching.

Peterson watched her silently from across the table.

“Do you plan on saying anything, Mr Peterson, or did you ask me to come here simply so you could give me the evil eye?”

“Are you recording this, ma’am?”

“You’ve worked in this suite; you know I am.  What did you want to say?”

Peterson’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

She was ready to get up and leave.  She didn’t have time for games, and her patience was almost non-existent.

“You know about the phone number?”  His gaze dropped to the table.

“Yes, _Leonard._ ”

Peterson cringed.  “When you asked me… how did you know Leonard Pemberton existed?”

“You don’t know?”  Peterson shook his head.  “We were able to trace Andrew Caulfield’s phone records quite early on.  We’ve known about the existence of Leonard Pemberton and Graham Hawker for some time, and the fact both identities are stolen, as was that of Elizabeth Jamieson.”

“Ah.”

“Who is Graham Hawker?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“What were you into?  Given the evidence found in your home, I’d say drugs; but you say the evidence is planted, so why don’t you tell me what you were up to instead.”  She waited for the denial he’d been involved in anything at all.  She expected him to say he’d been targeted, made an example of, that he was a scapegoat, a fall guy.  She had to tighten her jaw to stop her mouth falling open once he started to talk.

“I ran a lucrative cocaine operation in Northumbria for over five years; I was working in Violent Crime at the time.  Three years ago, planning for a major undercover investigation got underway.  I applied for a transfer a few months later, and began to disassociate myself from the business, removing nearly every trace of my involvement.”

“You kept and continued to use the Newcastle bank account.”

“Moving that amount of money would have sent up a red flag.  Letting things continue wouldn’t.”

“What did you get rid of?”

“Mobile numbers, email addresses.  I sold off properties I held under various names.  I abandoned those identities, killed them off, and buried them.  The offer of a position here in Oxford came up about six weeks before the operation was to begin.”

“Why transfer at all if you weren’t in the business?”

“I would have been part of the undercover operation.  That wouldn’t have ended well.”

“So you moved to Oxford?”

“Information gleaned after the Sheep Ridge raid pointed me towards the right people, and I joined the cocaine business here.”

“Joined the…  Are you quite sure you didn’t set yourself up in competition?”

Peterson shook his head.  “I considered it, but the business was too well established.  The best I could hope for was to find myself in a position to lead an operation one day.”

_Christ, he’s almost wistful!_

“You arrived in Oxford with a glowing recommendation.  I put you in charge of getting drugs off the streets, and you...”  Words failed her.

“You’ll never get drugs off the streets.  The best you can hope for is they don’t start a war.  I helped keep them under control.”

“If you think that’s going to earn you any credit or leniency–”

“I’m not stupid, nor a dreamer.”

“Who else is involved?”

“Ma’am?”

“Don’t play dumb with me; who else is involved in this business besides this Graham Hawker?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“How do we find Graham Hawker?”

“I can’t...  If I say anything, they’ll go after…”  Peterson shrank before her eyes and roughly scrubbed at his face with both hands.

“After who?  Who are you protecting?”

“If I tell you, you’ll offer to protect them, and as soon as you make any sort of move in that direction, Hawker will know I’ve spoken out.  I can’t take that risk.  I made a promise.”

“You also made a promise to preserve and prevent all offences against people and property, and you’ve broken that one rather thoroughly.”

Peterson stared stony-faced.

“Alan, this is a police station, filled with trained officers; we will find out who you’re protecting.”

“If you do, their death’ll be on your head.  Please, don’t look.  I don’t want them to be murdered.”

“Interesting double standard you have.”  Peterson glared.  “Is it connected with why you didn’t try to leave Oxford immediately the day you were arrested?  You had about a half an hour head start on us, on the tactical team, yet according to Sergeant Baker’s statement, it appeared you’d only arrived at your home shortly before they did.  Is that correct?”

“Yes.  I…  But it wasn’t because of…  There were things I had to check on the way.”

“Presumably disposing of the other mobile was one of them?  We know there were no other calls made or received on it after 10am.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you go back to the house at all?  If you knew we had the print, surely you would have known your home would be one of the first places we’d look for you.  You had a phone and your wallet.  You could have made a run for it.”

“I wanted to see what had been done to my home.  It was stupid.”

“So what happened, Alan?  If business was good, and judging by your bank statements, it was, why did they – Hawker – turn on you?”

“I fucked up.”

“I think that goes without saying.”

Peterson puffed out his cheeks.  He looked on the edge of giving up, which could make him very dangerous.  Innocent quietly slipped her shoes off under the table, in case she had to run.

“I made some bad calls, people started to die, covers were blown, and the operation was severely compromised because of my decisions.  My mistakes left a trail of wreckage, and Graham Hawker wasn’t happy.”

“Tell us what you know so we can stop him.”

A strangled cry of exasperation came from Peterson.  “I can’t.  If I cross him… he’s made it very clear what he’ll do, and I have no doubt he could do it and get away with it.”

“Alan, we have absolutely no chance of uncovering him and stopping him if you don’t give us information we can use.  We can protect whomever it is without giving the game away.  Give us some details.”

“I can’t take that chance.  And you have to promise not to look.  Promise me, please,” he pleaded.

“I can’t promise, Alan.  If someone else is at risk–”

“For Christ’s sake!”  He exploded, leaping to his feet and lunging across the table.  Innocent threw herself backwards, and the door crashed open as the duty sergeant and two constables burst in and launched themselves at Peterson.

Innocent stood back, leaning against the wall to ensure she stayed on her feet.  The three officers wrestled Peterson to the door.

“You all right, ma’am?” the sergeant grunted as he held Peterson’s arms behind his back for the constable to cuff.

“Yes, thank you.”

Peterson fought against the hands restraining him.  “She won’t be at risk if you don’t look!” he growled at Innocent.  “Leave her be.”

 _She._   Innocent decided to give Peterson twenty-four hours.  He was close to breaking.

She wouldn’t need the time.

 


	31. 23 January – Thursday – Afternoon

 

At Lewis’s insistence, Gurdip had compared the GPS trace they’d had done on the numbers registered to Hawker and Pemberton, with those of Peterson and Hooper.  The only overlap between Hooper’s phone and any of the others in the previous three months had been on one Saturday when Hooper’s and Pemberton’s phones had both been connected to the same tower near Templars Square – along with nearly one thousand others – which was more or less what they’d expected.

Peterson’s phone, however, was traced to Oakley on twelve occasions within the same period.  Hawker and Pemberton’s phones were there at the same time, and both Peterson’s and Pemberton’s numbers showed up near Peterson’s home at the same time on numerous occasions.  Tellingly, Peterson’s phone was picked up in Oakley about an hour after Murray was shot.  When Lewis attempted to trace Peterson’s movements for that day, he was only listed as being ‘on surveillance’.

Sergeant Halse arrived with the results of the canvass of Peterson’s street.

“Plenty of home security, but none of it would have picked up Peterson’s property, and very little of the street or footpaths.”

“What about Peterson’s own home?”  Lewis couldn’t remember seeing any cameras or sensors, but if the man was involved in the drug trade, as he’d claimed to Innocent to be – and hadn’t that been an eye-opening briefing – surely he’d have something.

“I can give you those details, sir.”  Gurdip swung around and pulled a file from the desk behind him.  “High-end system, with concealed cameras and sensors, but the last footage recorded was Peterson leaving at 8am on Monday.  Sometime after that, the system was disabled.  The power was cut and it was disconnected from the battery back-up.”

“And let me guess, we have no idea who did that?”

“Afraid not, sir.  Whoever it was knew the system.  Cutting the power wouldn’t have been that difficult, but they still would have had to know the position of the sensors to avoid triggering the cameras until they’d disconnected the battery.  After that, they could have done what they liked to the place.”

“Can we find out who installed the system?”

“It was easy enough to trace the supplier from the serial numbers on the cameras.  Peterson ordered the system components and collected them but he didn’t contract the supplier to install them.  It is possible he did it himself.  I can start going through the other local security companies, but it could take a while.”

Lewis huffed.

Gurdip shrugged apologetically.

James stretched and groaned.  “Peterson’s not helping himself at all.  Why?  He’s never struck me as self-destructive.”

“No,” Lewis agreed.  “Did you get the feeling Innocent was holding something back about her meeting with him?”

“Like what?”

“I wish I bloody well knew.”

“Excuse me, sir.”  Sergeant Halse spoke up.  “There was something else from this morning’s canvass which might be of interest.”

“Go on.”

“Several neighbours reported hearing what they thought was an accident late the previous Monday night.  One couple made the effort to take a look.  The said the streetlights were out, but they were able to see a motorcycle on its side in the middle of the road near a dark-coloured vehicle.  One man was sitting on the kerb.  The other walked towards the bike.  They went back to bed afterwards.”

“They didn’t call it in?”

“They said it looked under control.”

_So much for Neighbourhood Watch._

 

* * *

 

Innocent had to try again.  The truth behind multiple deaths was locked in Alan Peterson’s mind.  This time, Peterson was cuffed, and two constables stayed in the room with her, within arms’ reach of Peterson.

“I can’t say anything else, and you can’t go looking.  He won’t hesitate to kill.”  He was adamant.

“Hawker?”

“Yes.”

“Alan,” Innocent sighed.  “If you go to prison, you’ll be a marked man regardless.  I know that’s not the greatest incentive, but shouldn’t this Hawker face justice as well?”

Peterson bowed his head.

“I wish you’d help me help you, Alan,” Innocent said sadly, as she stood to leave.

“I murdered Carl Brayden,” Peterson said calmly.

Innocent sat down slowly.

“I rang Hawker for advice.  He told me to permanently take care of him.”

“And why would he do that?”

“We didn’t know how much Carl knew.”

“So you murdered him?”

“It was meant to look like an accident.  I was working back and still at the station when Susan called me.  She told me he was on his way to… he was getting too close.  I knew there was a damaged pool car parked outside the station garage that was driveable.  I took the spare keys from the front desk and took the car.  I couldn’t believe my luck when I saw him on the bypass; he’d been held up by a three-car accident that had blocked the road.  I waited until I couldn’t see any other cars, and I shunted him off the road.  When I realised the crash hadn’t killed him…”

“Why are admitting to this?”

“His mother deserves the truth.”

“Did you kill Susan as well?”

“No.”

“Evan Graves?”

“No.”

“Andrew Caulfield?”

“No.”

“Did you shoot at Sergeant Hathaway’s car, killing Paul Murray?”

“Yes.”  Peterson nodded.  Innocent felt hollow.  The two constables looked at each other in disbelief.  A tear trickled down the face of one.

“It was your Audi Murray identified?”

A second weak nod.  “Yes.”

“Did you have a second go at Sergeant Hathaway?”

“No.  That wasn’t me.  I wouldn’t have fucked it up a second time.”

Innocent had to work to stay calm.  Behind Peterson, the two constables were wide-eyed.  “You must have felt safe when you learned of Sergeant Hathaway’s amnesia.”

“I wouldn’t say that.  Memory loss can be temporary.  It was why a second attempt was made.”

“Do you know who shot at Sergeant Hathaway the second time?”

“No.”

“Why did you continue to drive your Audi around Oakley?”

“That wasn’t me.  I handed my car over to Hawker, who was supposed to secure it somewhere.  I haven’t seen my car since the day I shot Murray.”

“Then how do you explain the two sightings of a vehicle we now know to be your Audi?”  Peterson held his tongue.  Innocent hadn’t planned to follow this line of investigation yet; nor had she expected Peterson to confess to two murders.  “We know it’s your Audi; we found the change made in the PNC, a change we know you made.  The vehicle was traced back to the dealer by using the VIN, who had the original sales record.  It was a bit of an oversight not to change that number.”

“I haven’t seen my car since the day I shot Murray.”  Peterson repeated, staring at a point behind Innocent.”

“Let me guess; you’ve been set up?”

Peterson fell silent.  So did Innocent.  After a further five minutes of him refusing to acknowledge her, Innocent had him returned to his cell.  She remained in the room.

Despite the evidence already to hand, Innocent had been reluctant to believe one of her own was a murderer, hoping evidence of duress would surface.  But was he admitting to two murders to stop her looking into whomever he was protecting, or was it tactical?  By confessing to two murders, did Peterson hope the CPS would direct their attention to those, allowing someone else to escape?  Then why not admit to the one murder where his print had been found?  Even with proof he’d received a call on the day the print was identified, there was no way to know the actual content of the call.  It was still only Peterson’s word he had been set up.

Despite Peterson’s confession, the circumstances surrounding the Audi only added more confusion.  If Hawker had the car, as Peterson stated, was he arrogant enough to drive it knowing it could be identified?  Did he know it could be identified?  If Peterson had been set up, was reporting the car in the area simply another part of a larger plan?

Innocent covered her face with her hands and leant her elbows on the table.  The exchange was on record.  She would have to call for a review of the station garage’s CCTV to see if his claim about Brayden held water, and there would be further questioning to determine if he had indeed shot Paul Murray.

She sat up straight, tipped her head back to face the ceiling, and exhaled forcefully.  Peterson was staying silent to protect someone, but how could he hope to protect anyone from inside a prison?  His silence might save them from Hawker, whoever the bloody hell he was, but what was Peterson’s connection to them that he didn’t have to physically be around?  Was that someone within the station walls; was it a family member; did Peterson have a child no-one else knew about?  For all his sociability and friendly chatter, Innocent knew as much about Alan Peterson as she did James Hathaway.  Did anyone know him any better?

 _She._ Whether or not she did anything with the information, Innocent was determined to find out who _she_ was.

Innocent pushed herself to her feet.

 

* * *

 

Lewis straightened up as Innocent arrived in the incident room.  She’d aged since Peterson’s arrest but was doing her best to hide it.  Dark circles under her eyes were carefully concealed by expertly applied make-up, and she still commanded attention and respect.  To the casual observer, all was as it should be; however, those who knew her saw the struggle to hold her head high.  She was wearing an invisible, fully-loaded pack on her back, and Lewis was about to add more than a few pounds to it.

“Peterson was telling the truth, ma’am.  Gurdip found the CCTV footage easily enough.”  He nodded at Gurdip who played the cued images.  Peterson was clearly identifiable and the video showed him taking a dark coloured vehicle from the police garage at 11.15pm.  “It’s been identified as a dark green Toyota Avensis which had been involved in a minor traffic accident two days earlier.  There was some front panel damage, but the lights were intact and it was driveable.  It matches the vehicle we found following Carl Brayden onto Bayswater Road the night he died.  Peterson returned the vehicle a little after 2am.”

“How on earth did no-one see him that night?”  Innocent was shaking her head.  “Where was the officer on duty?”

“Hiding inside the office with the heater and a Thermos of coffee.  He didn’t hear a thing over the sleet on the roof and windows.  No-one expects anyone to steal a damaged car from the police station.”

“I suppose not.  There’ll have to be another bloody investigation though.”

Innocent walked away, pinching the bridge of her nose.  Lewis had the dubious satisfaction of knowing that particular headache wouldn’t be his or James’s fault.

 

* * *

 

Peterson curled up on the hard bunk.  Not surprisingly, Browning had been furious at him when he’d learned of Peterson’s confession.

“If they can’t prove you committed those two murders–”

“The proof is there.  They’ll find it now that they’re looking for it.”

“I appreciate your need to protect–”

“Shut up.  Not another word.  You do not mention her name.”

“Two murders, Alan, one a police officer, and an attempt on the life of a second.  The court will hammer you.  Prison will be a living nightmare for you.”

“She deserves to live out whatever time she has left in peace.  I will not be the one who causes that to be taken from her.  I can’t.  She’s my little sister.”

“I can’t help you if–”

“I don’t help myself; I know.  You should leave.”

“What about your defence?”

“I’ve confessed.  I won’t be mounting one.”

“There’s still a chance you could beat this.”

Peterson looked to see if Browning was attempting to be funny.  “You really don’t understand, do you?  If I say anything, she’s dead.  If I go on trial and mount a defence, there’s no telling what information might come out.  If _he’s_ exposed, she’s dead, and so am I.  This is the way it has to be.”

 


	32. 23 January – Thursday – Night

 

Lewis and James had stopped at Tesco’s on the way back to Lewis’s flat.  Neither was in the mood for takeaway or cooking, so they’d picked up a steak pie to go in the oven, and James had gathered what he needed for a salad.

The tick of the heating and the fan of the oven accompanied the soft shuck and snick of knives slicing vegetables.

“What do you make of Peterson’s story?” Lewis asked.

“I think there’s little doubt he went after Carl Brayden.  They’ll only need to compare the paint from the Avensis with the samples found on Brayden’s car to make that case watertight.  As for Murray… Murray mentions an Audi, Peterson’s not denying owning an Audi, the gun was found in his house, and Murray’s last words would now indicate he recognised whoever it was.”

“But no silencer.”

“Murray wasn’t shot with a silencer.”

“No.”  Lewis shivered at the memory of nine loud pops interspersed with the sound of breaking glass, all captured on the recording.  SOCO had recovered all nine bullets, including two buried deep in the driver’s headrest and one that had pierced the driver’s window.  The official report had concluded James had ducked just in time.  Lewis knew differently, though no-one would ever be able to say which bullet or bullets had taken James.

“The CPS is after him.”  James savaged a tomato.  “Building an airtight case is only a matter of time.”

“What about the other murders?”

“Hawker?  Caulfield?”  James considered the red pepper before deftly halving it.  “Reckon we’ll find out who Hawker is?”

“Going by what Innocent’s said, only if something loosens Peterson’s tongue.”

“Who do you think he’s protecting?”

“Don’t suppose we’ll know with Innocent’s orders not to go looking.”

“You’re not curious?”

“Course I’m bloody curious, but not curious enough to challenge whether Peterson’s telling the truth or not and putting someone at risk to satisfy meself.”

“Why did she tell us?  I would have thought it safer all around to say nothing.”

“So we’d stop asking why Peterson was protecting another murderer and not protecting himself.”

James sliced the pepper into thin, even strips and then laid the knife down.  “I think Peterson’s telling the truth about not shooting at me outside my flat.”

“Do you remember something?”

“The shots were precise, very precise.  If they had been the shooter in the woods, they wouldn’t have needed nine bullets.  Peterson’s not a good shot.  He barely scraped through his firearms assessment.  If it had been Peterson shooting at me from the road there would have been a wider spray of shots, or else he would have had to be right in front of me.  I would have seen him.”

“You remembered me, so you would have remembered seeing him.”

“Yes.”

Lewis sighed and began slicing the mangetout as James had shown him before.  “Ah, well, he’ll be the CPS’s headache soon enough and maybe then we’ll get some more answers.”

The oven timer ticked down the minutes.  The prepared salad went into the fridge, and Lewis opened two beers.  He leant against the worktop as James cleaned the knives and chopping boards.

James glanced sideways at Lewis.  “You never told me how things went with Father Anthony.”

“He wants me to undergo training to watch over you.  Think I’ve had enough experience of that already, don’t you?”

“I’ll talk to him.  I’m sure he’ll be able to pare back the training.”

“Y’know, neither of you mentioned training sessions.”

“I’m sure we would have at least given you the impression.”  Lewis harrumphed quietly.  James grinned.  “What else did Father Anthony say?”

“Why do I have a feeling you already know?”

“I may have done this once or twice before.”

“He said from here on I should get any questions out of the way as soon they arise.”

“Go on.  I know you’ve been carrying a second notebook around.”  Lewis gave him a look.  “I’m very observant.  I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“Right.”  Lewis ignored James’s smirk as he opened the small book.  “I know it was your birth name, but have you always been known as James Edward Hathaway?”

“No.  Sometimes it was necessary to change my name, but we tried to stick the initials JEH or EJH whenever possible.  Why?”

Lewis brought out the clipping Peterson had waved in front of James.  It was worn along the creases where Lewis had unfolded and folded it repeatedly.  “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have kept this but the likeness… Magistrate Edwin Hattaway?”

“Ah.  Yes, that was me.  And I knew you had it.”

“Oh?”  Lewis hoped he didn’t look as guilty as he felt.

“I came back and saw you look at it, and then put it in your pocket.”

“I didn’t see you.”  Lewis felt like a rabbit in the headlights, even though James seemed more amused than annoyed.

“I can be very stealthy when I want.”

“Right.  Sorry.”

“It’s fine, really.”

Lewis scoured James’s face for any sign it wasn’t fine.  He saw none.  “Didn’t it bother you when Peterson shoved it in your face?”

“Apart from the fact it wasn’t my guardians’ finest hour, not really – even if Peterson had chosen to pursue it, who would have believed him?”

“Can I ask what happened?”

“That year a man arrived in Manchester from Heidelberg – a man in his sixties whom I’d tutored as a boy.  He began to tell people I was ‘unnatural’, one of the ‘undead’.  Polidori's _The Vampyre_ had been published in 1819, and the gothic vampire was well known in theatre and poetry.  People were starting to listen to him.  I found myself needing to move on.  It was handled clumsily, rushed for some reason.  One day I was there, and then I wasn’t.”

“You said you had a parish once?”

James nodded.

“How long did you stay there?”

“I was there until 1780, when my brother and I set sail on our doomed voyage to Barbados.”

“And you went to Hamburg after that?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do there?”

“Once I learnt to speak German, I studied philosophy and literature.”

“Is that what turned you into a walking quotation?”

“You love my apt quotes and poetry.”

“Most of the time.”  The timer jangled.  “I think that’s dinner ready.”

While they ate, they talked about more general things – Lyn and Tim, Jack, the fact James had chosen to leave his car at the station.

“I didn’t see the point if we were both coming here.  Parking nearby can be problematic at the best of times, and it’s not as though I have to be able to get myself home in the morning.  That is, assuming it’s okay for me to stay tonight.”

“Course it is.”

 

**********

 

Lewis made a brew while James put away the last of the dishes.  He’d offered beer, wine, and whisky, and had made a joke of James’s request for tea.  Then James had explained why.

“I forget or I don’t, and if I were to dwell on it, or try to drink to forget, I’d go mad or be permanently drunk, so I try to learn from what’s happened and move on.”

“Does it work?”

“Not always, but it’s better than the alternatives.  I’ve seen so much, been through so much, and it hasn’t gotten easier with time, which I think is a good thing.  I can’t imagine living desensitised to events and the people around me.  And it has to be tea: tea soothes.  There’s a ritual to tea which is as simple or as complex as you want to make it, whether you use a cup or a pot, teabags or leaf tea.”

“Overhead light or lamp?” Lewis asked as James carried the tea tray to the coffee table.

“Lamp.”

“Telly or music?”

James snorted.  “It’s your flat.”

“It’s your ritual,” Lewis replied quietly.

James smiled fondly.  “Telly’s fine.”

James poured the tea, adding the milk to his own cup before the tea and to Lewis’s cup after the tea.

“Good lad; it’s important to get the colour right.  There’s nothing worse than a pale cup of tea.”

“It’s very Orwellian of you.”

“Eh?”

“George Orwell… never mind.”

“Liked his milk last.  Got it.  Did you know him?”

“Who?”

“George Orwell?”

James pressed his mouth into a thin line, but there was more than a hint of a smile in his eyes.  “I may have read the essay when it was originally published in the _Evening Standard_ in 1946, but no, I never met the man.”

“Met anyone famous?”

“That would depend on your definition of famous.  World famous, no, though I have seen many of the great actors, singers, and composers performing live.  However, if you’re referring to people held in high regard in their own community, and remembered long afterwards with reverence, yes, I’ve met a few.”

“Would I have heard of any of them?”

“I once knew a young Detective Constable in London who I believe could be considered famous.”

“Oh, aye?  You going to give me a few more clues?  I’m not a bad detective, but that’s not enough even for me.”

James chuckled.  “DC George Gently.”

“Gently!”  Lewis nearly spilled his tea as he jumped.  “The man was a bloody legend.”

“To those who encountered him, yes.  To the greater world, not so.  Perspective can be a funny thing.”

“Aye, I suppose it is.”

James flicked through the channels, pausing for a minute here, a second or two there, tutting, humming, scoffing, and thinking.  He stopped on an advert featuring dogs, skipping on quickly when the news came on.  Normally the flashed images would annoy Lewis; for tonight he let James be.

“Can I keep asking questions?”

“Yes.”  James was frowning at someone chopping onions.  “Technique’s all wrong,” he murmured.

Lewis smiled to himself.  Another flicker on the screen.  “James…?”

“Hmmm?”

“On Monday, after…  At the forest.  You really don’t remember what happened do you?”

James’s thumb froze above the remote button.  “No.”

“And Father Anthony’s interview, what he said about Trevor Halley finding you?”

“A story.”

“It’s perjury.”

A wry smile settled on James’s lips.  “And how do you think the truth would have sounded?”

Lewis tried to imagine Innocent’s reaction to learning James was immortal.  He couldn’t.  “Innocent would have had him sectioned.”

James nodded.  “For a start.  That Father Anthony took me to the hospital so you could be told where I was, that told me there was no-one who could say I’d died, or at least no-one the guardians believed would be willing to come forward.  Because I was where I was, I knew they’d have to come up with a verifiable story, but I had no idea what it was going to be until Father Anthony spoke.  I didn’t get the full story until I saw Father Anthony again after… you know when.”

“How did they know no-one had seen what happened to you?  You couldn’t have told them.”

“Once they were aware of what had occurred, the guardians would have scanned the police frequencies and then monitored Twitter and as many other media outlets as possible.”

“Twitter?”

“You’d be surprised how much is reported on there before it hits the main news broadcasts.”

“Did Father Anthony tell you what he knew?”

“If I can’t remember, they don’t fill me in, allowing me to learn the truth as it unfolds.  That way I can’t confuse what I know with what I’ve been told.”

“So you never asked anyone to contact Father Anthony?”

“I didn’t need to.  He knew exactly where I was.  You have to know, if I’d been in a position to call for anyone it would have been you.”

A warmth he hadn’t felt in some time surged through Lewis.  He had been right about James.

“Was the man interviewed as Trevor Halley really Trevor Halley?”

“Oh, yes, he’s a real person.”

“And what about the house where he was interviewed?”

“It’s his.  It was rather fortunate.”

“He’s a guardian, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Will I meet him?”

“In due course.”

“If Halley hadn’t been there, or the shooting had taken place somewhere else, how would the guardians have explained your reappearance?”

“It would have depended where and when, and who witnessed it.”

For Lewis, the possible alternatives were unthinkable.

 

**********

 

They watched a repeat of David Attenborough, and Lewis found himself chuckling at James giggling at the antics of the meerkats.  It was heartening to hear him relax, more so because of the lack of alcohol involved.  James quieted when the mob’s matriarch died, the small creatures on the screen at a loss.  Lewis touched James lightly on the arm.

“I’m fine.”  James turned his head slightly and frowned.  Lewis hadn’t said a word, and he was quite sure he’d kept his expression neutral, yet James saw through him.  He covered Lewis’s hand.  “You can ask me anything about my past.  If I can’t answer, I’ll say so.”

“What would have happened if Elizabeth hadn’t passed when she did?  Would you have told her?”

James turned back to the meerkats, and Lewis held his breath.

“No.”  James’s voice carried his loss.  “The guardians had formulated a contingency plan, an ‘accident’ which would leave no earthly remains to bury.  It’s still there, still viable should it ever be needed.”

“Have you ever… was Elizabeth…?”  Lewis wasn’t sure what he was trying to ask.

James apparently did.  “I’ve considered relationships with others since then, but…  I started seeing Fiona because I needed something and someone.  It was never love; it was barely lust.  I just wanted physical contact and she seemed the least likely to want a long-term commitment.  I wasn't entirely surprised when she moved on with barely a blip.”

“What about now?”

“Now?”

“Do you get lonely?”

“Sometimes.  I think about getting a cat from time to time, but I don’t think I’d enjoy the one-sided conversations.  And you can’t…”  James pressed his lips together and gazed at the telly, cradling the remote in his hand.

“Can’t…?”

At first, James didn’t move or speak.  Then his shoulders relaxed and he leant against Lewis, lightly dropping his head on Lewis’s shoulder.  “You can’t do this with a cat.  A big dog, maybe, but it’d be cruel to keep a big dog in a flat.”

Lewis stayed very still.  “No, I can’t say Monty’s ever given me a literal shoulder to lean on.”

“Do you mind?”

“No.”

“Really?”

Lewis tilted his head until his check brushed against James’s hair.  “Is this all right?”

“Yeah.  Yeah, this is good.”

The programme on the telly changed, and James muted the sound.  They sat, heads nestled together, while the characters on the screen bumbled about like Laurel and Hardy in full-colour.

“James, are you ever scared of dying?”

“Sometimes, but not for myself.  It's about those I’ll leave behind, the uncertainty they’ll be left with, and the grief they wouldn’t need to feel if they knew.”

James’s head grew heavier on Lewis’s shoulder, and his breaths grew deeper and slower.

“Sir?”

“Mmmm?”

“Did you have any more questions for tonight?”

“Just one.  Stay where you are; you’re all right.”  James had begun to lift his head.  “D’you think you might call me Robbie when we’re like this?”

“Okay, Robbie.”

“Good.”

They sat in silence for several seconds.

“Sir?”

“It’s Robbie, James.”

James snorted softly.  “Robbie, what was your last question?”

“That was it.”

 


	33. TWO MONTHS LATER – 27 March – Thursday – Morning

 

Peterson cradled his wrist.  Four weeks he’d worn the cast, which was supposed to hold everything immobile, but he still felt the bones grate against each other at the slightest movement.  He’d spent the first month on remand segregated from the general prison community for his own protection.  The isolation had driven him to request to be moved, despite all the warnings.  He’d been attacked while he was being led to the stairs to go to his reassigned cell.  Three nights in hospital, under armed guard, had given him some respite.  However, on his return to prison he’d been placed back in segregation.

“Our job is to keep you alive until you’re up in front of the magistrate.  Can’t promise anything more.”

Every guard who’d looked in on him in the eight weeks since he first arrived had said the same, in one form or another.  He’d been charged with two counts of murder – Carl Brayden and Paul Murray – and one of the attempted murder of James Hathaway in Bernwood Forest.  He still had another month on remand before his scheduled court date.

Peterson’s deepest regret was having no way to get a message to Mandy.  Woodhill might only be forty-odd miles from Oxford, but it might as well have been on the other side of the world.  Mandy might have seen the news – or not, if the nursing staff were looking out for her properly – but with her childlike mind may not have made the connection between ‘Alan Peterson, murderer’ and the Alan she knew as her brother.  She’d be wondering where he was, and why her supply of magazines and Bassett’s Liquorice Allsorts had stopped.  He kept reminding himself she was safe.

Jean Innocent had brought some light to Peterson’s time, though he had no idea why.  She’d first arrived during his third week, bringing library books and talking to him about, well, nothing really: road works, building maintenance, sporting results, and the weather – he didn’t see much of that.  She never spoke of work, of who was doing what, of gossip.  She visited him in hospital and then returned to the prison once a week after that, exchanging the books and giving him the latest football results.

“Why do you come?” he’d asked her two weeks ago.

She’d stood up and left without answering.  When she’d returned the following week, he hadn’t dared ask again.

Now he was waiting for her to arrive, but this wasn’t a regular visit.  He wondered what they’d found, because they must have found something.  Why else would Innocent be coming here today, and before 9am?

The door to the segregation cell clunked open, and the guard’s silhouette blocked what little light there was.

“On your feet.”

 

**********

 

He sat opposite Innocent.  She looked impatient.  The guard never took his eyes off him.

Innocent’s opening words left him floundering.

“I found your sister.”

“How do you…?  No-one…?”

“I haven’t told a soul, I promise you.  It took a bit of work, but I found her.  She was the one you were protecting, wasn’t she?”

“You shouldn’t have looked.”

“I had to know why you wouldn’t protect yourself, Alan.”

“You could have put her in danger.”

Peterson thought he was going to be sick.  He swallowed, willing the nausea to subside.He’d sworn to look out for his little sister.  With Mum gone, and Dad in the home, surrounded by fellow dementia patients, he’d been the only one left to look out for her.

Mandy.  He’d sworn to look out for his little sister.  With Mum gone, and Dad in the home, surrounded by fellow dementia patients, he’d been the only one left to look out for her.

His stomach rebelled as he recalled a smug face showing him a photo of Mandy.  She was sitting up in bed, smiling happily for the camera, with _him_ sitting on the edge of the bed beside her, looking every bit like the beloved uncle he’d claimed to be – he’d even faked a letter of introduction from Peterson, the only way strangers were permitted to visit Mandy – somehow he’d found out that detail.

Mandy, with her child’s mind, wouldn’t have known any different.  Every man who looked over a certain age was ‘Uncle’ to her, including her specialist, and some of the staff in the care home.

_“Sweet kid, your sister,” he’d said._

_“You leave her alone.”_

_“Don’t cross me, and I will.”_

_“The staff would stop you before you could lay a hand on her.”_

_“I wouldn’t have to.  She’s rather fond of sweet things, isn’t she?  So easy to slip something inside a gift.”_

_“She’s an innocent.”_

_“Then you should ensure you do everything you can to protect her.”_

“Oh, God, Mandy,” Peterson moaned softly.

“I never went out to the care home.”  Innocent’s words rushed out, probably intended to reassure him.  “I did have the good fortune to discover a friend’s daughter is a nurse there.”

The room became airless and began to sway.  Peterson pressed his hands against the fixed table to steady himself.  “How long have you known?”

“Two days before I first visited you.  I considered telling you then, but I know how word spreads in a prison.”

“Why are you telling me now?”

“Alan, I’m sorry.  She passed away last night.  Jenny – the nurse I mentioned – she said it was Amanda’s heart, that it was expected.”

Peterson’s breaths came in short, sharp bursts.  He nodded.  “She had a weak heart.  Mandy was born with Down’s Syndrome.  She had heart surgery as a baby.”

“It was her you were protecting?”

“Yes.  Mandy hadn’t been expected to live past her teens.  Every day after that was a miracle – that’s why I had to make sure she lived as long as she could.  I made her a promise.”  The implications of Mandy’s death hit Peterson like a blast.  “Who else have you told?  Who else has the home told?”

“I’ve only told you.  Jenny said the home has directions to inform you, and no-one else, so the news shouldn’t go beyond those walls.”

“It will though.  It’s like the station; there’re ears and eyes everywhere and people talk.  There’s no time.”  Peterson’s fingers drummed nervously on the table, and the guard edged closer. 

“No time for what, Alan?”

“You have to move on him.  Graham Hawker is Gordon Hooper.”

“Alan,” Innocent groaned.  “We looked into Hooper.  We found no connection to you or Hawker.  Nothing.  He’s a lonely man doing a job he’s not well equipped for and just trying to get on with life.  Can’t you leave him alone?”

“He’s got everyone conned.  He found Mandy, visited her, lied his way into the home.  He threatened to kill her if I ever betrayed him.  Now that she’s dead…”  Peterson’s fingers drummed harder.  “There’s a property just east of Oakley.  It’s the base of his operation.  It’s where Carl Brayden was headed the night I…  It was where Caulfield was supposed to take Susan after she was released from custody.”

“After you deleted the emails so she got out after twenty-four hours.”

“God, that’s history.  As soon as Hooper finds out my sister’s dead – and he will – he’ll start to shut down and move on.  The plans are in place.  It’ll take him less than twelve hours and I’ll be dead before he’s gone.  You have to move on him.  Search his home – there has to be something.”

Innocent gaped at him.  “Alan, this is insane.  Listen to me; you need to give me something I can verify quickly, something that points the finger at him, so I know you’re telling me the truth.”

Peterson stilled his fingers by gripping the edge of the table.  He leant forward over his hands, getting as close to Innocent as he could without leaving his seat.  “On the night I murdered Carl Brayden, DC Hooper had been assigned to take the statement from a PCSO who’d been assaulted outside The Chequers.  Hooper was at A&E from 10pm until around 2am.  If you look at Graham Hawker’s phone records, you’ll find he was there as well.”

 

* * *

 

Innocent sat in her car, hastily scribbling down notes.

“You’re absolutely certain of that, Robbie?”

“Aye.”  She heard his frown.  “Hawker was out near the JR that Saturday.”

“Thank you.”

“Ma’am?”

Innocent closed her eyes.  “Yes?”

“What’s this about?”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I’m certain myself.”  She ended the call before the next question came.

If the duty sergeant thought her questions odd, he didn’t say anything.  He was also as certain as Lewis.

“Yes, ma’am, DC Hooper was at the JR that night.  I remember him moan– pointing out how bad the roads would be with the sleet.  The PCSO needed six stitches; it was a busy night and they didn’t get out until after two in the morning.”

“Have you seen DC Hooper this morning?”

“Saw him come in about eight, ma’am.”

“Can you find out where he is and ask him to contact me?  I’ll be back at the station in about an hour.”

She called Helen Laxton.

 

**********

 

“When was Hooper last heard from or seen?”  Innocent hurried through the station’s corridors, her mobile pressed to her ear to catch the duty sergeant’s voice.

“There’s been neither hide nor hair of him since about half-past nine, ma’am.  DI Grainger’s been trying to locate him as well.”

“Can you put out an alert for his car?”

“Ma’am?”

“It’s imperative that I speak to him.  What about his phone?”

“He must be in a dead-zone, ma’am; we haven’t been able to get through.”

“Damn it!”

“Ah… is there anything else you want me to do, ma’am?”

“Keep trying Hooper.  Please.”  She rushed into Laxton’s office and three pairs of eyes turned on her.  “Tell me Peterson is clutching at straws?”

Laxton glanced at Lewis and James.  “We’ve tried the number linked to Hawker.  It’s been switched off or disconnected.  I directed an area car to go past Hooper’s place but there was no-one there.”

“Has Gurdip found anything?”  Innocent had outlined some very specific tasks for the technically gifted young man.

“I left him to it,” Laxton replied.  “I thought he’d work better without me hovering over his shoulder.”  She scowled.  “Why’s Peterson saying this now?  What does he hope to achieve?  Why were you even at the prison?”

Lewis and James looked at Innocent and then each other.  Innocent recognised the look.  An entire conversation had just taken place.

“I’ll explain later,” Innocent said wearily.

“Ma’am.”  James had his phone in his hand.  “Should we issue an all ports warning?”

Innocent had gone in circles in her mind on that question.  “What reason do we give?  If we say Hooper’s wanted in relation to drug and murder charges, and subsequently can’t prove anything, the union and the media will go for the throat.  A search of this Oakley property Peterson’s identified might give us what we need, but the claim of a confessed murderer isn’t necessarily going to get us the warrants we need.”

“I have a thought, ma’am.”

“Well, don’t keep it to yourself, Hathaway.”

“Peterson’s claim could be seen as a threat against Hooper, and now, Hooper has fallen off the radar.  A search of Hooper’s home to ascertain his safety would be a logical next step, and as we have reason to believe Hooper may be in danger, we wouldn’t need a warrant.  If Peterson’s claims have any ground, we might get what we need inside Hooper’s home.”

“James, I could kiss you.  Helen, organise the search immediately.”

“Hooper also has an allotment, ma’am,” Lewis added.  “Out at Barton Fields.  Could be worth a look.  Or not.”

“How do you know that?”

“Came up in conversation a while back, and I heard him talking about it again just before Christmas.”

Laxton grabbed her bag and coat.  “I’m off.  What will you do now?”

“Let’s see what Mr Sohal has.”

 

* * *

 

Gurdip had reviewed the CCTV evidence from Hooper’s call to A&E the day Peterson had been arrested.  DI Laxton hadn’t told him what she was looking for, only that he was to ‘cover every possibility’.  Gurdip had looked at the footage from an external camera they’d not considered significant, as they had Hooper’s movements within A&E on file.  Gurdip had watched it twice in disbelief and then called hospital security for more information.

“We had to put a camera on that door because it was an exit point and we couldn’t place one internally; we record, but rarely monitor it live.  It’s generally locked after sunset, but during the day anyone can use it, though as it goes to a small courtyard and then through to the Women’s Centre, it’s mostly used by staff.  Is it important?”

“It might be,” Gurdip murmured distractedly as he Googled a site map of the hospital.  “Thanks.”

He looked at the footage for a third time, shaking his head.  Hooper was clearly visible exiting through the single swinging door at 8.10am, and heading purposefully for the Women’s Centre.  Fast-forwarding the footage revealed Hooper returning at 10.20am. 

Hooper wouldn’t have had to go anywhere near the main CCTV as he left.  Gurdip lowered his head on the desk.  Laxton and Innocent would…  Gurdip pushed their possible reaction from his mind as another question took over.  _What the hell did Hooper do with his phone?_

He spun in his chair when Innocent walked in, closely followed by Lewis and Hathaway.

“I don’t like the expression on your face, Mr Sohal.”  Innocent stared at him.

“You won’t like this either, ma’am.”

 

**********

 

“That’s impossible.”  Innocent had sunk into a spare chair.  “We have his phone located at the hospital from 7.55am to 11.10am.”

“I know, ma’am.  I’ve been thinking he could have hidden it somewhere in the hospital – a vent, a cupboard, on top of something,” Gurdip offered.  “Anywhere it would get a signal and not be seen.  He went to the Gents either side of sitting in that corner.”

“He took a call from the desk sergeant at 9am.  I want the call records on Hooper’s phone for that day.”

“What about his car?” Lewis asked.

Gurdip ran his finger down the top page in an opened file.  “He took a pool car, and the GPS and log books checked out at the time.”

“You were thorough.”

“DI Laxton asked me to check it out.”

“Could he have stolen a car and returned it to the car park?” Innocent asked.  “Check all the vehicle reports for that day.  Now, what about Hooper’s phone?”

 

* * *

 

Laxton closed and locked the door to the shed at Hooper’s allotment.  The semi-frozen ground lay bare, though Laxton could see where a recent effort had been made to turn the soil.  She’d only seen two other people there, both of whom identified Hooper from a series of photos Laxton had thought to bring with her.

“Comes out a lot from March to October, but I don’t see him often in the colder months,” a man called Ted had offered.

“His tomatoes are always lovely; I swap him duck eggs for tomatoes,” was the testimonial from Joseph.

Laxton followed the solo SOCO who’d joined her for the side trip to Barton Fields, waving as he hopped into his car and drove off.  She sat in her own car and revisited the search of Hooper’s modest home in her head.

It had been a quick though very thorough search.  The small two bedroom terraced house was neat and sparsely furnished, with few places to hide anything.  There was a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a double bed, and one bedside table in the larger bedroom.  The second bedroom contained a desk and a chair.  The compact bathroom had a small mirrored cabinet over the sink, and the shower was over the bath.  A large cupboard held the boiler and shelves for storing towels and linen, of which there was very little.

Downstairs a utilitarian kitchen cum dining room filled one side and a spacious living room the other.  The bookshelves were a surprise.  The living room was a library, with filled floor to ceiling bookshelves covering every inch of wall space.  A small two-seater couch sat under the window, and there was a simple pine coffee table in front of it.  A lamp in the corner completed the room.  Every window was covered with vertical blinds that had definitely seen their best days. 

There were no photographs or pictures anywhere in the house, no throw rugs or scatter cushions for colour, no signs of warmth.  It was homely as a Holiday Inn room.

The search had then moved to the garage.  Under a protective cover sat Peterson’s Audi; Laxton had memorised the registration.  Two months of alerts and false sightings and here it was, practically under their noses the whole time.  In the boot they’d found a silencer in the space which held the spare wheel.

“Would that fit a Walther P99?” Laxton had asked.

“I believe so,” came the quiet response from the SOCO, who was holding the cylinder as if it would burn her.

There’d been a yell from the front of the car, and the SOCO had held up a passport.

Taking it in gloved hands, Laxton had opened it warily, as if it could bite her.

It was in the name of Graham Hawker and Hooper’s face stared up, deadpan, at her.

“Son of a bitch.”

The bastard had conned them all.

The shrill of her phone ripping through the silence in her car startled Laxton.

“Yes?”

She had the warrant for the Oakley property.  Now she was ready to update Innocent.

 

* * *

 

Gurdip double-checked the phone details in the PDF documents he’d received with those on the original files pertaining to Peterson’s case.  He could feel Innocent’s eyes on the back of his neck.  _She won’t shoot the messenger_ , he repeated to himself.

“Gurdip?”

He took a deep breath and turned around.  “When we reviewed DC Hooper’s calls on the day DI Peterson was arrested, we only looked at the calls Hooper made – we were trying to connect him back to Peterson.  That morning, DC Hooper received a call from the desk sergeant at 9am.  This report shows it was redirected to another number.  To Graham Hawker’s number.”

“Why wasn’t that picked up when we first checked his phone records?”

“We focussed on the call made to DI Peterson, ma’am.”

“And we know Hawker was near Peterson’s house.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Buggering hell!” Lewis exclaimed. 

James slumped against the doorway.

Innocent’s phone rang.

 

* * *

 

Peterson stayed as close to the guard as he dared as he was led through a corridor to meet with Browning.  He’d called his solicitor as soon as Innocent had left.  Arrangements would have to be made for Mandy’s funeral, and Browning was best placed to organise that.  He wanted to make a note to include Innocent somehow.

The attack came from behind.  A pool cue clattered down on the back of the guard’s head, dropping him to the ground.  Yells and choked-off grunts came from behind Peterson, and then someone punched him in the throat.  The burning sting came a second later, and heat spilled down over Peterson’s chest.

Footsteps faded as the attackers fled.  Peterson’s hand flew to his throat.  Bells rang somewhere.  Heat pushed between Peterson’s fingers.

It grew darker.  A uniform ran towards him.

Peterson tried to talk.

_I’ve been stabbed._

The floor rushed to meet him.

 

* * *

 

Lewis watched, fascinated, as Innocent’s face rippled from stunned through angry to determined.

He felt his whole body go through the same emotions as Innocent relayed Laxton’s discoveries.  Beside him, James clenched and unclenched his fists and then fell completely still.

“Find Hooper, or Hawker, or whatever he’s bloody well calling himself this week,” Innocent growled.  “And get an all ports warning out.  We’ve more than enough.”

“Do you want either of us to go out to Oakley?” Lewis asked.

“No, Helen’s got that under control.  I need you to coordinate finding Hooper.”

 

* * *

 

The paramedic swore softly under her breath as the ambulance wailed its way to the hospital.  She didn’t hold high hopes for the patient.  They’d reached him as fast as they could, but calls to the prison were always a bitch.  Valuable minutes had been lost getting the man – Peterson, according to the guard wedged in the folding seat by the rear doors – into the ambulance.  The prison medical staff had done their best to stop the bleeding and stabilise the poor man, but the gash in his throat was horrendous, and there was no way for her to assess what damage had been done.  The monitor’s alarm beeped angrily as Peterson’s blood pressure remained critically low, despite the unit of blood they were trying to get into him.  If he went into cardiac arrest now, she didn’t like his chances.

 

* * *

 

Lewis paced.  He hated waiting.  He willed his mobile to ring, repeatedly taking it from his pocket and checking the screen.  Logic told him it would take Laxton and the team a while to get out to Oakley and conduct the search, and Julie and Gurdip were working on their tasks as fast as the various systems and bureaucracies allowed.

James walked in and glared at him impatiently.  “For pity’s sake, sit down before you wear out your shoes.”

“Pacing helps me think.  You do it too; I’ve watched you.”

“But you’re not thinking, are you?  You’re going in circles.”  James gripped Lewis’s elbow.  “Stop,” he said gently.

“How can you be so bloody patient?” 

“Years of practice.”

Lewis sat down.  “I’m glad Laura’s not here to see all this.  She’s got a bit of a soft spot for Hooper and his ways.”

“Really?  Every time I’ve mentioned him around her she rolls her eyes.”

“She’s probably rolling them at you, you numpty.”

James leant on a seat back, giving Lewis a look of mock disapproval.  “When’s she due back from the Maldives?”

“Another week to go.”

“Do you think she’ll hear the news?”

“Probably.  Bloody internet.”

 

* * *

 

She hadn’t expected Peterson to respond.  Alarms had blared as he’d suddenly flat-lined when the ambulance had stopped sharply outside the A&E doors.  She’d gone onto automatic, calling her colleague through to monitor their patient while she operated the defibrillator.  There’d been a weak but steady rhythm after the second shock.  She thought her own heart would wear out before they got him through to the treatment area.

She stood back, mechanically answering the questions put to her as three doctors and two nurses moved as a co-ordinated unit over the pale, still body.  The cast covering his wrist and forearm hindered their attempts to get an additional IV into him.  His blood pressure reading was one of the lowest she’d seen and, despite supplemental oxygen, his blood oxygen levels had been dangerously low the entire time he’d been in her care.  Even if he stabilised enough to be put on life support, he was at risk of irreversible brain damage.

She looked away as he went into cardiac arrest again.

 


	34. 27 March – Thursday – Afternoon

 

Lewis tapped his foot impatiently.  Laxton had called to say they’d reached the Oakley property and were going in.  That had been five minutes ago.  Innocent had left to brief the Chief Constable.

Hooper’s car had been found at the train station, though there was no record of any train ticket being purchased by Hooper or Hawker – he’d covered himself so well so far, Lewis doubted Hooper would allow himself to be tripped up by such a simple mistake.  Another officer was reviewing CCTV of the ticket office and the ticket machines.  It was a thankless task, but it had to be done.

“Julie, do you have anything yet?”  Lewis ignored James’s tut.  He did trust Julie to speak up as soon as she had something – if she found anything – but he had to feel like he was doing something.

“No record of him leaving the country, sir, either through an airport or ferry terminal,” Julie reported.

“Start searching for a Graham Hawker, same date of birth.”

“I have been, sir.  Still nothing.”

“Try again, please.  Try variations on the name.  Try any of the names from the investigation.  Gurdip, have you got anything?”

“Several cars were reported broken into at the JR on the day in question, with all but one recovered relatively intact within twenty-four hours.  The remaining car was reported stolen, and subsequently found at the other end of the car park.  It had been broken into, but nothing taken.”

“Except a drive to Peterson’s place.”

“We don’t know that for certain, sir.”  James was at Lewis’s elbow.

“I’m getting CCTV of the car park,” Gurdip said, “and I’ve requested a search on ANPR for the vehicle.  We might have something this afternoon.”

 

* * *

 

The raid into the Oakley house had gone without a hitch.  If Hooper was aware of what was happening, and had gone on the run, he hadn’t warned the two men they’d found eating toasted cheese sandwiches and preparing one-gram bags of cocaine.  Laxton hoped his arrogance towards his ‘employees’ – she couldn’t believe it was a mistake – could be Hooper’s undoing.

The single storey property was set back from the road.  Laxton had easily spotted the security camera trained on the gate, as the rest of her team would have, and had fully expected some resistance, or to see vehicles or people attempting to leave the property.  A second access road had been identified and blocked for that very reason, and the first vehicle through the gates carried two trained dogs.

The house had been still, though a bright orange scooter and a battered Vectra parked by the front door indicated someone was home.  Laxton had watched as the officers of Team One talked briefly amongst themselves, before the burliest one had shrugged, walked up to the door, and knocked.

From inside had come the scrape of a chair and a door banged somewhere.

The door had swung open, and a rake-thin man had taken a second to register what he was seeing.

“Where’s ya key ya stupid c–  Fuck!”

He’d managed to turn before the first dog leapt on his back, knocking him to the ground.

A voice had called through from beyond the door.

“What the fuck are you doing–  Who the fuck are you?”

Team Two had crept in through the rear door.

It was all over in seconds.  The house and the phone line were secured and SOCO had gone to work.  Laxton had been amazed to see security monitors and a police scanner, both of which would have given the men warning, were switched off.  Either they were too stupid to turn them on, or with Peterson in jail, and Hooper no doubt confident in his silence, they’d become complacent.  A criminal’s arrogance and pride were often the copper’s best friend.

Both men now sat handcuffed at the table.  A plate of sandwiches sat on one corner of the table, cold, congealed cheese sitting in blobs on the plate’s surface.  Neatly laid out across the table were piles of filled and empty plastic bags, two sets of scales, two scoops, and a larger quantity of cocaine in a significantly larger bag.

Laxton leant against the old stone sink, her scene suit rustling against the rough surface.  She could feel the texture of the stone through her gloves.  This house had never seen the hand of a renovator, though it appeared well maintained.

“Ma’am?”  A head popped around the doorframe.  “You’ll want to see this.”

With a final glance at the two surly prisoners, Laxton stepped into the adjoining room.  A battered couch sat against one wall, and a simple desk and chair were placed under the small window.  A tall, narrow cupboard stood in a corner, looking out of place.

“We found this hanging in the cupboard, ma’am, along with a couple of suits.”

The leather satchel was new, Louis Vuitton to judge by the logo.  One officer was carefully laying out the contents as a second officer photographed each item as it was removed from the bag.

There was a wallet, an unlabelled document wallet, and a British passport.  The other items consisted of travel-sized toiletries, a copy of Jon Ronson’s _The Psychopath Test_ , and an iPod touch and earbuds.  A travel kit, ready to grab and go.

Laxton picked up the passport.  It was in the name of Leonard Pemberton, and Peterson stared blankly out of the photo.  His booking photo when he’d been transferred to Woodhill had been more flattering.  In the document folder were papers relating to a property purchase in Ho Chi Minh City.  The contract was dated six months previous.

“Vietnam’s a bit of a strange choice, don’t you think, ma’am?  Wouldn’t have thought that’d be DI Peterson’s country of choice.”

“There’s no extradition treaty between Vietnam and the UK.  The list of countries he could have fled to gets shorter every year, and beggars can’t be choosers.”

Peterson had obviously had every intention of fleeing the country at some point, so what had stopped him?  He could have disappeared after Murray was shot – the injuries from his motorcycle accident hadn’t been that severe.  No-one would have looked for him for a day or two, at least, and he could have got away scot-free.

Laxton called Innocent.

 

* * *

 

Innocent counted back the hours as she ended the call.  Ninety more minutes and she could take another dose of Co-codamol.  She stopped outside the door and listened briefly.  Papers flicked, keyboards clacked, mouses clicked.  Lewis’s voice rumbled low.  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  The buck on this one would stop with the Chief Constable, but that didn’t take any pressure off her.  Not yet.  Not until Hooper was in custody and charged.

She lifted her head and walked into the room.  “Lewis, I’ve just spoken to DI Laxton.  What do you have?”

Lewis told her, clearly and concisely.  James added nothing, which could only mean they had worked through every possible option and idea they could come up with, and were in agreement.

The pounding behind her eyes increased as the invisible vice around her head tightened.  Although she knew why Peterson had stayed silent, she also knew she was going to lose sleep wondering if she could have done more to get him to speak up.  If they lost Hooper…

“Anything from DI Laxton, ma’am?”

She summarised Helen’s call.

“Vietnam?  Do you think Hooper could be heading in the same direction?”

“There aren’t that many countries they could run to and consider themselves safe.”  James joined the conversation.

Innocent’s phone rang out over Lewis and James’s renewed discussion.  She sighed as the caller ID flashed.  It was a surprise this particular call had taken so long to occur.

“Mr Browning, how may I help you?”

She walked slowly out of the room as his words sank in.

 

**********

 

Lewis and James were seated at one of the desks, deep in discussion when she returned.  A map of Southeast Asia was on the monitor in front of them.  James was speaking.

“No, we can still find Hooper, and–”

“That was Mr Browning; there’s been a development.”  Innocent interrupted them.  “Peterson was attacked in prison as he was being escorted to meet with Browning.  It occurred shortly after the search on Hooper’s home.  He died in A&E at Milton Keynes.”

“How?”

“Who?”

“Browning didn’t have a lot of details, but it seems to have been a prisoner or prisoners.  Peterson was stabbed, and two guards were attacked; the guards are being treated for their injuries.”

Lewis pushed against the seat back and folded his arm across his chest.  “Any police officer who ends up on the wrong side of the bars in prison is a target.  It’s why Peterson was kept in segregation.  Whoever did it could have been biding their time since he first went in.”

Innocent saw little point in staying silent now.  “Or Hooper heard about his sister and assumed he’d talk.”

“ _Sister_?”

She drew up a chair, and quietly told them why Peterson had stayed silent.

 

* * *

 

James stayed silent when Innocent finished.  He’d covered his mouth and chin with his hand, and was leaning on the desk.  He looked straight ahead but his eyes were unfocussed.  Lewis couldn’t read his expression; however, he believed he understood.  James, too, wanted to keep those closest to him around for as long as possible.  James would also do whatever it took to protect them.

“James.”  Innocent looked at him with concern.

James blinked slowly and turned towards Innocent.  He glanced at Lewis and cleared his throat.  “I was thinking of my aunt.  She had motor neurone disease.  Never knowing when her illness would take her left us all unsettled.  You can make some strange decisions and promises.”

“James, I’ve gradually formed the opinion that for someone of your comparative youth, you have a very broad life experience.”  She regarded him curiously.

“I’ve read a lot, ma’am.”

“Ma’am, Sirs!” Julie called out.  “I think I’ve got something.”

James’s shoulders dropped fractionally with relief as Innocent jumped up.

Lewis leant towards him as he stood up.  “Now’s not the time for a dose of existential flu, lad.”

James rolled his eyes, and followed him.

“Dear God.”  Innocent was leaning forward over Julie’s shoulder, transfixed by the screen.

“Following Inspector Lewis’s suggestion, after drawing a blank on passports or travel arrangements for Hooper and Hawker, I looked for every variation I could think of on those names; I was going to start on Peterson and Pemberton next.  I found Graham Hopper.”

James gave a low whistle.  Lewis looked over Julie’s head at the image on the screen.  Unless Gordon Hooper had an unknown identical twin, Graham Hopper was Gordon Hooper.

“Has he left the country?”  Innocent’s voice bore an edge of trepidation.

“There’s nothing as yet.”

Innocent was talking on her phone and out the door in seconds.

“Sir?”  Julie looked up at Lewis.

“Excellent work, Julie.  Innocent will be reissuing the all ports warning with the new details, and I’d say she’s off to update the Chief Constable.  It’s after five; why don’t you go home?”  She started to protest.  “Did you have lunch today?”

He shooed her out the door after she shook her head sheepishly.

The room was quiet. 

“You can’t blame her for wanting to stay,” James murmured.  “From what I’ve seen and heard, the night shift’s going to be a bit crowded tonight.”

Lewis sighed.  “I need a cuppa, lad, how about you?”

“I suppose it’s still too early for beer.”

“What happened to the soothing ritual of tea?”

“Sometimes you need beer.”

“I’ll drink to that – once Hooper’s behind bars.”

“I’m buying.”

“I’d counted on it.  Now.  I need tea.”

 

* * *

 

Lewis stared at his monitor and watched the characters swim and dance in front of his eyes.  He looked at the time in corner.  Seven.  James’s prediction of an over-crowded station hadn’t come to pass, as Innocent had issued a stern directive to all department heads to ensure only rostered staff were on the premises, and warning of repercussions if she were to find action had not been taken to achieve this.

When the revised all ports warning had gone out, they’d hoped for a swift result.  Surely Hooper would be trying to get as far away as he could, as soon as he could?  He had to turn up somewhere soon.  Another thought settled in Lewis stomach and curdled.  _What if there’s another passport?  What if he’s hiding under our noses, biding his time?_

At his own desk, James was absent-mindedly linking paperclips together as he read something on his monitor, and then he frowned.  Lewis took a breath to ask him what was so vexing.

“I knew you’d both still be here.”  Innocent slumped against the doorframe.  “Directives have never worked on you two, have they?”

“We’re actively on the case.  We need to be here.  Is DI Laxton back yet?”  James yawned and stretched, the string of silver clips hanging like tinsel between his hands. 

“She got in from Oakley an hour ago and is now processing Hooper’s two minions.”

“No word on Hooper yet?”  Lewis stood and eased the tightness in his back.

“No.  Look, I understand why you want to be here when–”  Her mobile rang in her hand.

Lewis noticed she took a slow, deep breath and closed her eyes before answering.  He wondered how many times she had done that over the past couple of hours.

“You’re quite certain?”  She kept her eyes closed.

“Thank you.”

She stared at the screen until the display went dark.

“Hooper was picked up at Gatwick,” she whispered.

James stood up so fast, the chair bounced off the bookcase behind him and the paperclips clattered on his keyboard.

“Ma’am?”

“He was attempting to get onto a flight to Manila as Graham Hopper.  He’s in custody at Gatwick Station.  Sussex Police will arrange for his transfer tomorrow.”

Lewis quickly moved to Innocent’s side and helped her to the spare chair.  Her hands had started to shake, and the last thing any of them needed was for Innocent to hit the floor.

“Let me guess.”  Lewis looked to James.  “No extradition treaty with The Philippines.”

“Not yet.  But it won’t be far off.”

“Was it Gatwick who called, ma’am?”  Lewis sat on the edge of James’s desk.  Innocent’s colour was returning.

“Yes.  Inspector Thompson.”

“Did Hooper go quietly, or kicking and screaming?”

“Thompson said there was a scuffle during the arrest, which I suspect would translate as the latter.”

“Was Hooper injured?”

“No.  I don’t know.  Thompson didn’t say.”

“Pity.”

“LEWIS!”

“Sir!”

“Oh, come on.  You were both thinking it.”  Neither James nor Innocent denied the claim.

“We do have enough to make the charges stick, don’t we?”  James had sat down.

Innocent nodded.  “We’ve more than enough with the CCTV, phone traces, and the false passport and other ID to hold him on remand while we build the case, and Helen says the two they picked up in Oakley have been very forthcoming so far.  It doesn’t pay to abandon your underlings to the police.  And I’d like to hear what story he comes up with for having Peterson’s Audi and the silencer.”

“Question is, is that silencer the one that was used?”  Lewis hadn’t heard anything back on the forensics from Hooper’s home.

Innocent nodded.  “It’s looking that way.  There was blood spatter on it – Hooper didn’t take very good care of his tools – and Forensics has identified two different blood types; they match Susan Brayden and Andrew Caulfield.  A DNA result will take a bit longer, but with Hooper in custody, we have time.”

“It doesn’t help Peterson though.”

“He knew he was a dead man as soon as I told him his sister was dead.  He said he’d be killed within twelve hours.”

“He got that right.”

“Hooper will be made to pay.”  Innocent got to her feet.  “Gentlemen, please go home.  We’ll all have to be in here bright and early to prepare for Hooper’s arrival tomorrow, and I want both of you as fresh as you can be.”

“Is that an order, ma’am?”

“Out, James."

 

**********

 

Going against Innocent’s order, Lewis and James sought out Laxton.  They found her in the unexpectedly silent incident room.  She looked weary, and quietly triumphant.

“Where is everyone?”  Lewis waved a hand at the darkened monitors and empty desks.

“Pub.  As soon as we heard the little bastard was in custody, I sent them packing to celebrate.  They’d earned it.  It was bloody good work today.”

“We still have a case to build,” James said.

Laxton smiled, slow and wide.  “And build it we shall.  Want to hear the latest?  This won’t be official until tomorrow; Gurdip went through it with me just before I sent him off to the pub.”  She walked over to one of the boards without waiting for a reply.  She pointed to a photograph.  “On the day of Peterson’s arrest, CCTV from the JR shows Hooper breaking into and stealing a car at 8.15am, and returning it to a different car park at 10.10am. The owner reported it missing at 9.30am and hospital security located it at 11am.  CCTV wasn’t checked at the time because the officer handling the call assumed the owner had simply gotten turned around in the hospital and forgotten where he’d parked his car.”

“Even though they could tell it had been broken into?”

“Nothing was stolen from the car, and the damage was minor; the owner chose not to pursue it.”

“Bloody hell.”  If that had been followed up…  Lewis reminded himself ‘if’ was a bloody big word, just as he’d told James.

“It gets better.  The ANPR search picked up the same car less than half a mile from Hooper’s home at 8.25, and then it’s picked up near Templars Square at 9am.”

“The duty sergeant called Hooper at nine, and the call was redirected to that area,” James murmured.

Laxton nodded.  “Thirty-five minutes would also give Hooper time to go to his own home and load up the stolen car with the items subsequently found in Peterson’s home.  Unfortunately there’s nothing showing the car in the immediate vicinity of either Hooper’s or Peterson’s homes, but that’s a minor consideration at this stage.  The car’s then picked up again at 9.50am, going east past the Templars Centre.”

“Back to the JR.”

“That’s the assumption.  It smashes Hooper’s alibi to pieces.  He hadn’t planned on a call-out that morning and had to improvise.  Gurdip’s convinced Hooper hid his mobile somewhere in the men’s loo and a couple of SOCOs are going out tomorrow to look for potential hiding spots and to see if Hooper left anything behind.  If the Fates are on our side, we’ll find a print somewhere it shouldn’t be.”

Lewis then voiced his deepest fear.

“How can we be sure this doesn’t go wider, that Hooper hadn’t drawn in more officers besides Peterson?”

“I’m more concerned Hooper _isn’t_ at the top,” James added.  “And there’s someone above him who can start again.”

“I don’t think we have to worry on those counts.”  Laxton folded her arms and leant against a desk.  “SOCO discovered detailed notes in a safe at the property in Oakley which appear to list everyone involved – including Hooper and Peterson, as Hawker and Pemberton, of course – and their ‘weaknesses’, let’s say.  Hooper and Peterson are the only known police officers named, serving or otherwise, and Hooper, is the only one who doesn’t have any details listed.”

Lewis sat on another desk.  “Risky leaving information like that around.”

“We’re not sure yet just how long Hooper’s been at it, but I suppose if you go on long enough and nothing happens, you become cocky.”

“By weaknesses, you mean information Hooper could use to keep a leash on people?” James asked.  “For example, details on Peterson’s sister.”

“Exactly that sort of thing.  The lack of anything against Hooper leads me to believe he was at the top of the food chain.  I’m hoping our little friends in the custody suite will sing a bit more tomorrow.  And maybe once Hooper starts talking – and, by God, we’ll make him talk – we might get to the truth behind Peterson’s print on Susan Brayden’s watch.”

Lewis frowned.  “Hawker and Pemberton were aliases.  How do we know the other names on the list are genuine?  Can we be certain at this stage that no other officers are involved?”

“There is a chance the other names are aliases, but remember, it was only Susan Brayden’s phone which was in an assumed name.  Apart from Peterson and Hooper, everyone else we’ve encountered on this case has been who they’ve claimed to be.”

“Except Rupert Hall,” James pointed out.  “Who, by the way, still hasn’t turned up anywhere.”

“Ah, we’ve found him on the list.  He’s listed as a solicitor, and Australian, which may explain why we couldn’t find him registered here.  I suspect the search tomorrow will uncover more about Mr Hall, or perhaps Hooper can fill in that detail as well.  As for identifying other officers, given that the entry for Pemberton – Peterson – identified him as a police officer, it’s difficult to believe others wouldn’t have been marked out in the same way.  I’ve assigned a team of three officers to work through the list, starting first thing tomorrow.  They’re also going to compare it to the information found in the box file during the search of Peterson’s home.  At a first glance, the Oakley documents are the more comprehensive of the two.”

“But if the names _are_ false…” Lewis repeated.

“The Oakley documents contain information such as birth dates, family members’ names, and club and organisation affiliations.  Even if a false name is listed, they should be able to secure an accurate identity, and then we’ll reel them in, one by one.  And if they run, we’ll find them.”

“What about this property in Oakley?” Lewis asked.  “We know using the empty farmhouse to hide Susan and Caulfield was opportunistic, but they must have needed something more permanent for the business side of things.”

“A property search lists the owner as a John Cowper, who died five years ago.”

“Another stolen identity.”

“Yes and no.  It’s quite likely the property simply hasn’t been transferred.  John Cowper was Hooper’s stepfather.  Hooper grew up on the farm.  Julie’s going to contact the Probate Office to see what they can tell us.”  She stood up, patted James on the shoulder, and then squeezed Lewis’s shoulder.  “Stop frowning, the pair of you.  We’ve got him, and we’re going to throw the book at him.  Now go home before Jean finds us all still here and chases us out.”

 


	35. 27 March – Thursday – Night

 

It was close to nine by the time Lewis and James finally stumbled through the door of Lewis’s flat.

They still had a lot of work in front of them, and other cases would keep coming in, but they were going to do it; Hooper would go away for a very long time.  Lewis felt confident of that now.

James headed straight to the kitchen.  He clattered about as he filled and set the kettle to boil, rinsed and wiped out the teapot, and prepared the cups.

“Oi.”  Lewis spoke softly, and put his hand over James’s to gentle his movements.  “I’ve only got the one teapot.”

“Sorry.”

“S’all right.  You’d better get it off your chest.”

“Hooper had us all conned.  Presenting as a plodding DC, and he was a criminal mastermind.”

“Not that much of a mastermind in the end; there’s enough evidence to put him away for a lengthy stretch.”

“If he survives on remand.”

“Yeah, I guess there’s that to consider.”

James asked, “I suppose it was for the money?  It’s usually money, sex, or power, isn’t it?”

“Could have been money and power, though the way he lived, you’d never have known it.”  Lewis rested against the worktop.  “It’s a hell of a way to fund your retirement, with all those lives lost or ruined.  How could you ever relax with all that on your conscience?”

“Maybe he doesn’t have one.”

“I’d never have picked either of them as a killer, though I could see Peterson as a predator – the sort that played with its prey, like Monty does when he finds an insect in the flat.”

“Goes some way to explaining why Peterson was sniffing around the case, turning up in interview rooms, poking his nose where it wasn’t wanted or needed.”

“And his vagueness about Caulfield.  He knew who he was all the bloody time, and Susan Brayden.”

James added some of the near-boiling water to the pot, replaced the kettle, and swirled the pot to heat it.  “Knew, yes, but I don’t think he killed them.  Peterson wouldn’t have been stupid enough to leave a print behind; Hooper must have planted it.”

“Not one of the minions?”

“Doubt it.  Hooper would want to keep control; and that means he was involved in Susan’s death.  It would have been fairly easy for him to find out when the print was being processed – he would have been waiting for it to be detected once news of Susan’s body being found was out – and he must have been ready to set Peterson up, wind him up and watch him run.”

“Hooper took a bloody risk leaving the hospital that day.”

“It looks like he’d planned to set Peterson up that particular day, and was determined to do it regardless.  He must have been swearing when he was sent to the hospital, but he found a way to work around it, didn’t he?  The biggest risk he took was in not knowing if the young man would regain consciousness.  How would he have explained not being in A&E?”  James added the leaf tea to the pot and gently poured boiling water over it.

“If I were Hooper, I’d say I went to stretch my legs and got lost in the corridors.”  Lewis rummaged in the drawer for a couple of teaspoons.  “He’d say it in such a way everyone would believe him.  It would become another ‘bumbling Hooper’ story.  Makes you wonder about some of the stories about him, doesn’t it?”

“Makes you wonder about a lot of things.”  James set everything neatly on the tray, and carried it to the coffee table.  "The night I was shot, did you notice Peterson and Hooper both turned up?”

Lewis switched off the overhead lights, clicked on the lamps, and joined James on the couch.  “Aye, and Peterson had a right go at you, didn’t he?”

“The prat.  I found out both Hooper and Peterson were at Murray’s memorial having drinks at the time of the shooting; I asked around a couple of days later because I was so pissed off at Peterson and wanted to know how he’d found out.  I don’t know if anyone saw Hooper leave or return, but when Innocent received the call he was with Grainger, and Peterson was boring Gurdip with some tale of derring-do from Sunderland.”

“Peterson was…?  At the memorial for a man he’d murdered?”  James nodded gravely.  “Callous bastard!”

“I can think of a few other choice phrases.”  James poured the tea.  “Anyway, that only leaves Caulfield in the picture as the potential shooter, so one of them must have told him where we’d be, and he was waiting in the street for me to come out.”

“Or me?”

“No.  Innocent was right; I was the target.  Think about it.  How often have you been to my flat?”

“Er, I, uh…”

“Exactly.  Not very often.  If they wanted either one of us, or you, they’d have been better off staking out your flat.  Unless they were told where we were.”

“How?  It’s not as though we announced our plans to everyone.”

“No, but Hooper seemed to just pop up in the station after I offered to make dinner with that… apology.”

“Oh.”  Lewis’s eyes and mouth made three circles on his face.  “He wasn’t upset because Murray was killed; he was pissed off because you got away.  You threw a spanner in the works.  His apology and excuse about coming back for something was a quick cover story because we saw him.”

James handed Lewis one of the cups.  “It also gave Hooper an alibi if anyone asked where he’d been, or what he’d been doing back at the station.”

“And we’d be the ones who backed it up!  Bloody hell.  Innocent’s worried about you turning to crime; Hooper was… genius.  That is frightening.”

James rubbed wearily at his face.

“Come here.”  Lewis stretched his free arm across the back of the couch, and James moved into the space, resting his head on Lewis’s shoulder.  Lewis let his arm fall across James’s back.  “Better?”

“Yeah.”

Lewis sipped his tea quietly as James settled.  “Did your aunt really die of motor neurone disease?”

“Yes; in 1770, though it didn’t have a name until 1874, when Jean-Martin Charcot first used the term amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.”

“ALS?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve seen a lot of changes and discoveries, haven’t you?”

“More than I can remember, and not always for good.”

“Is there anything which hasn’t changed?”

James nestled closer.

“People.”

“People?”

“People don’t change.  Every generation, every nationality and culture I’ve encountered generally has the same people.  There’s always a Hooper and an Innocent, shopkeepers like Mr Dichiera and priests like Father Anthony, and so on.  However…”  James lifted his face to look at Lewis.  “Robbie Lewises are a rare jewel.”

“Away, you daft sod.”  Lewis tapped playfully at James’s arm and James smiled fondly. 

The shift in their relationship had been gradual.  Lewis had met with the rest of the guardians, and Father Anthony had retired, keeping the number at five.  It had also been decided to forego Lewis’s induction.  He already knew James better than anyone else in the room did, and his loyalty to James was unquestioned.

Lewis was still coming gradually to terms with the truth about James.  He understood why James had never said anything before.  If he hadn’t witnessed James’s death and subsequent revival for himself, he still wouldn’t have believed it.  However, Lewis didn’t have time for magic and mysticism, and was happy to leave those questions to Father Anthony and the others.  As the truth had settled in his mind, Lewis had expected to feel some anger or resentment at James for deceiving him.  What he’d felt instead was sadness for all James had seen and was yet to see, for the losses he’d felt, for the love he’d lost.  It pained Lewis that one day his death would be another ache in James’s heart.

Some people might have backed away from physical closeness.  Logic said if he and James became too close, that would only compound the loss James would one day feel.  Lewis drew on his own experiences of love and loss.  Yes, he missed Val, and yes, there were days when the loss was felt more keenly, but those days had taken on a softer edge as he’d worked through his grief.  More and more he called on happier memories of Val, of their life together, first as a couple and then as parents, of special days and holidays, of care and comfort, of intimacy.  These were what gave Lewis strength, and what would ultimately bring James strength and solace.

He and James had never really had personal space, so the steps towards a greater intimacy hadn’t been difficult to make.  Lewis looked forward eagerly to their nights on the couch, which now usually ended with James dozing off against him as he was now.  James had also taken great care to ensure Lewis understood he wasn’t seeking a sexual relationship.

James had been lying on the couch with his head in Lewis’s lap.  Lewis’s arm had been draped across James’s body, his fingers lightly stroking James’s arm.  Something was on the telly; Lewis couldn’t remember what.  James had suddenly sat up, squishing up on the couch next to Lewis, and letting his head rest against Lewis’s shoulder.  He’d taken hold of Lewis’s hand.

“If Elizabeth hadn’t come into my life when she did, I probably would have remained celibate.  After I lost her, after the grief began to settle, I wanted to recapture some of what she made me feel.  I realise now I made a mistake trying to find it in sex.  I found a release, but I could never find the peace I was seeking.  I thought I never would again.  Yet, being here with you, like this, I have it.  This is what I need.  Does that scare you?”

“Why should it scare me?”

“I don’t want to… if you’re not comfortable with this, I can step back.”

Lewis had softly kissed the top of James’s head.  “It brings me comfort, too, James.  I don’t want you to step back.  If this is what you need, I can give you this.  I’m more than happy to give you this, to share it with you.”

They’d progressed to hugs and snuggling on the couch, and Lewis had intimated to James that he’d be willing to take the snuggling to bed from time to time, if it was what James wanted.

James shifted against Lewis’s chest.  “Are you still sure about this, Robbie?”

“What do you think, soft lad?”  He pulled James closer.

The quiet of the flat settled around them.  The tea cooled, forgotten.  James began to snore softly.  Lewis lightly stroked James’s hair, and James snuffled, his arms tightening around Lewis’s waist.

“As soon as we get some time, James, pet, I think we should think about looking for a home to share,” Lewis murmured.  “What do you say to that?”

“Can we have a small garden?” James mumbled, raising his chin and half-opening one eye.  “And a bathtub.  I miss having long baths.”

“Sounds fine to me.”  Lewis placed a soft kiss on the top of James’s head.  “Sounds perfect.”

 

~~~~~ _FIN_ ~~~~~ _  
_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title:  
> Many thanks to paperscribe for giving this story a title.  
> From George Byron’s, _Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage_ , Canto the Third  
>  _“The race of life becomes a hopeless flight_  
>  _To those that walk in darkness.”_
> 
>  
> 
> This was not the story I originally started to write after signing up in September 2014. So how did this story come to be?
> 
> On 13 December 2014, I mentioned on Twitter that I was trying to complete a Christmas story, so, of course, I was binge watching the first ten (at that point) episodes of Forever, with Ioan Gruffudd. barcardivodka made a comment along the lines of, “oh, researching immortal!James.” The bloody muse latched on to that idea and wouldn’t let go. This is the result.
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter 12:  
> To the best of my knowledge, there is no such pub as The Drum and Quill in Oxford, though Marston’s pubs are all over the country.
> 
> Chapter 20:  
> There really was an earthquake in Oxford in 1764.  
> “6 November 1764 Oxford  
> Alarming in Oxford; doors burst open. Felt also at Wallingford, Cirencester and other, unnamed, places in Oxfordshire, Berkshire and Wiltshire.”  
> Sources: BGS material. [Short notes on UK earthquakes](http://web.archive.org/web/20110516173115/http:/www.quakes.bgs.ac.uk/earthquakes/historical/historical_listing.htm) (you have to scroll down a bit).
> 
> There is major ley line near Oxford. [The St Michael Ley line](http://www.ancient-wisdom.co.uk/stmichael.htm) runs to the south of Oxford, just north of Didcot. Scroll down to see the map.
> 
> Chapter 32:  
> George Orwell’s essay, A Nice Cup of Tea, can be read [here](http://orwell.ru/library/articles/tea/english/e_tea).
> 
> Chapter 34:  
> An extradition treaty between The Philippines and the UK was announced on [4 March 2014](http://globalnation.inquirer.net/99823/ph-extradition-treaties-with-uk-india-spain-approved/).


End file.
